


Observers

by TheBeeThatHums



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Artist Reader, Blood and Injury, Brother-Sister Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, For Science!, Forehead Kisses, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Sherlock, John Watson is a good brother, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Protective Older Brothers, SO MUCH FLUFF, Science, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Has A Crush, Sherlock has feelings, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock is a Mess, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Watson Reader - Freeform, cases
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-11-04 19:03:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 80
Words: 120,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17903774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBeeThatHums/pseuds/TheBeeThatHums
Summary: John's younger sister moves in downstairs and Sherlock is intrigued- delving into her past, present, and finding love along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

John bounced on the balls of his feet impatiently. What was taking you so long? The scheduling board said you had arrived over 15 minutes ago and you were usually efficient and quick with moving to your next destination, so where were you? 

Spying your older brother across the station, you crept up behind him with a mischievous grin and pounced on to his back. “You really need to be more observant, Johnny.” 

He laughed and yanked you over his shoulder so he could sweep you up into a warm hug. “(F/n), you little brat! I was starting to worry. What took you so long?” 

You giggled, pulling him to you tightly. “You always worry, you old worry wart. I was just delayed a bit. Ah! It’s so good to see you!” 

“It’s good to see you too, Squeak.”

He swept you off your feet again and you squealed, “John, put me down this second!” 

When he wouldn’t, you poked his side lightly, causing him to drop you as he let out an involuntary laugh and batted your hand away. You grinned at him. Growing up with him, you knew exactly where he was ticklish, but he returned you a frown. “What happened to your face?”

You rubbed the back of your neck awkwardly, knowing he was referring to the bruise that was surely spreading across your cheek and jaw by now. “Like I said… I was, umm… delayed.” 

“(F/n),” he said warningly, stepping forward to get a better look as he leveled you with a demanding older brother glare. 

You sighed and rushed, “I maaaayyyy… havegottenintoarowwithaguyonthetrain.” 

John frowned at you, how did you always manage to get into trouble like this? You were like a trouble magnet. 

You gave him a little grin and tried to reassure him, saying, “It’s not that bad; he only got in one good shot. Besides, he looks a million times worse than I do.”

John did not find this as amusing or comforting as you did, giving you a look that said you-are-in-so-much-trouble-you-don’t-even-know. Your eyes went wide all the sudden as your hearing picked up a conversation behind you and you pulled him in front of you so you could hide behind him. 

A couple of coppers were pulling a badly beaten man from the train. He was yelling something about a quick bitch from hell as he nursed a broken arm and then demanded that they find the whore who broke his nose and put her in jail. 

The police officers shook their heads, one saying, “If the witnesses on the train are to be believed, which I know they are, she did the public a service. Did you really think you’d get away with kidnapping a child in such a public place?” 

John spun to look at you, careful to keep you concealed from the man’s wild eyes, and hissed, “You did that? I can’t say I blame you but still… can’t you stay out of trouble?” 

You grinned as you noticed the pride that was now creeping into his face and gave a slight shrug. “What can I say? Trouble always seems to find me. It’s not like I go looking for it.” 

He sighed, knowing what you said wasn’t exactly true. “Come on; let’s go put some ice on that.” He took your bag and linked your arm with his, leading the way.

–

221 Baker St. 

It looked nice enough from your position at the bottom of the front steps; well-located, quaint, quiet, but not too quiet… It could work. You glanced down the street. It wasn’t Montmartre or Paris, but London would do. 

John rolled his eyes at you when he realized you were still down on the very edge of the sidewalk and not following him through the door. “Well? Are you just going to stare at it or are you going to come inside? I don’t have all day.” 

You snapped out of it, pouting as you bounded up the front walk to catch up, “Not even for me?” 

He chuckled, taking your hand and pulling you inside and up the stairs after him, all the way to apartment B. 

Seeing the door, you tugged at his arm. “Shouldn’t I at least see where I’ll be living before you drag me all over your apartment, Johnny?” 

He waved a dismissive hand at you, opening the door. “Later. I don’t want you meeting Mrs. Hudson before we take care of that bruise. She’ll think you’re some sort of hoodlum – though I’m not entirely convinced you aren’t.” 

You let out a smooth, melodious laugh as he pulled you into the flat, shoving you down into a chair before he went to get something for your face. You took everything in with a little grin. It was just as John had described to you – the skull on the mantle, the bullet-ridden smiley face on the wall, the mess in the kitchen. 

You bounced up to look at the collection of books on one of the walls near the window, running your fingers lovingly over spines old and new until you came to one you knew well. You pulled it out, yelling over your shoulder, “John, you twat, I’ve been looking for this everywhere! You might have told me you took it.” 

There was a deep chuckle from behind you that most definitely was not John’s. You froze, thoughts racing. Roommate. Right. High-functioning sociopath. Often sleeps late. More likely than not is dressed in night clothes. Woken by the noise. Younger than John, from the timber of his laugh. Tall. Standing in the doorway that leads to the bedrooms and bathroom. 

You remembered the blanket on the couch and smirked.

Wrong. Not asleep at all. Thinking. Got up to use the restroom. 

John came back in carrying a bag of ice and some Advil. “What is it that I took? Oh… Hello Sherlock. I’m sorry. Did we wake you?” 

Before the man could answer, you turned, saying, “Stop fretting, John. He wasn’t asleep. By the look of it, he was on the couch, probably thinking, and got up to use the loo just before we came in. Also, he’s wondering why I’m here as he’s figured I’m a relative of some sort, but more likely than not wasn’t listening when you told him I’d be moving in downstairs, when you told him I’d be arriving today, or even when you were leaving to pick me up. I’m taking this book.” 

You walked over and took the ice from John casually before returning to the armchair you knew was his to look over the familiar book. John floundered a little, looking over at Sherlock, unsure of how he’d react. To his surprise, there was a slight smile on the consulting detective’s face. 

Realizing you’d only taken the ice, he began to scold you. “(F/n), you need to take these. They’ll help bring down the swelling.” 

You waved a hand. “The swelling will go down on its own. You know I don’t take pills.” 

Sherlock decided to observe this little interaction for a while longer before saying anything and went to sit on the couch. 

John sighed. It would do him no good to try and get you to listen and you were right about the swelling going down on its own. He shook his head and went to make tea. 

Pulling your legs up to sit cross-legged, you smiled as you ran your hands over the smooth, worn leather cover of your prize. You’d bound it yourself when you were young and going through a bookbinding phase. You opened it to flip through its pages, stopping when you came to a particularly interesting drawing you’d done, or to read something that John had written. 

It had started out blank but was now entirely full of John’s and your own youthful adventures and thoughts, like a shared journal or sketchbook of sorts. Sherlock watched you carefully as you chuckled quietly at some pages and frowned at others before John re-entered, bearing tea. “Oh, that one… sure, take it. It belongs more to you than it does to me anyways.” 

You took the tea without looking up at him. “Lies. It is just as much yours as it is mine, but I shall take it all the same, as you’ve been hoarding it all this time.” 

He knelt in front of you, pulling the arm holding the ice away from your face and frowned. “Does your jaw hurt or click? It looks pretty bad. It must have been a good hit for a bruise to appear so quickly.” 

You pushed him away with your foot, still flipping through the book. “I’m fine. He got in one good swing, but it’s not anything I can’t handle. It’ll heal up in a couple of days.”

John gave up, going back to the kitchen while grumbling, “The fact you even know that at all is worrisome.” 

You rolled your eyes and turned your attention to Sherlock. He expected you to say something – comment on his staring, introduce yourself, or something of the sort – but you didn’t. You simply stared back at him, doing some observing of your own.

He was as you thought; tall, slightly younger than John, wearing nightclothes. You took in some new facts as well – the icy blue of his eyes, the dark curls that fell in his face, and his blank expression. He was watching you, trying to read you and deduce as much as he could. Arrogant. Cocky. But underneath was something else… Caring, possibly.

You were wondering what he might be deducing from you when he spoke. “I’ve been informed it’s rude to stare.” 

You kept your gaze on him. “As have I, though I believe that, as you started it, I have every right to reciprocate.” 

He seemed surprised by your answer and you gave a small smirk before he continued, testing you, “It is also rude to enter the living space of another and not introduce yourself.” 

You didn’t even flinch, replying, “A host who does not greet or offer an introduction to a guest cannot rightfully expect to receive either in kind.” 

Silence enveloped the room again as you both went back to staring. It wasn’t as though Sherlock was having trouble reading you, it was simply the fact that he was curious enough for him to stay quiet. 

He was about to break the silence when you suddenly giggled, “I like you. You’re interesting.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing, and then went to the kitchen to make sure John wasn’t messing with his current experiment.

As soon as he left, you rummaged through your bag, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen, and began scribbling. It didn’t take you long to finish your task and you tore the page out, slid everything else back in your bag, and laid the paper on the coffee table. You stood, slung your messenger pack over your shoulder, and called, “I’ll be back later, Johnny!” as you darted out the door.

Before John could even register what you’d said, you were gone. He sighed and ran a hand over his face, trying to remind himself that you were an adult and could take care of yourself. Sherlock’s eyes locked on the paper you had left and he went to pick it up.

It was him – a drawing of him, rather. You’d captured the bullet holes and smiley face on the wall behind him and the wrinkles of the couch, but more importantly, was the way you’d perfectly rendered his face and position as he stared at you. His eyes expressing a slight curiosity within the overwhelming sense of superiority, the corner of his lip turning up ever so slightly, the way his hands were clasped together confidently - you’d put it all down on paper. Underneath it, in loopy handwriting, it said, “A pleasure meeting you, Sherlock Holmes,” and in the corner, in a flurry of elegant swirls, “(F/n) Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

You got back to the flat a few hours later, out of breath with a flushed face, pulling the door shut quickly behind you and rushing to the window. Sherlock watched you from his chair. “You’ve been running from someone.” 

John walked in just as he said it and gawked at you, incredulously asking, “What’ve you done now?” 

Your eyes searched the street – maybe you’d lost them, after all. “Why do you always assume I’ve done something?” 

You inhaled quickly and pressed yourself against the wall next to the window, out of sight of those on the street below. Sherlock got up to see who you were trying to evade and his gaze found a couple of police officers below, glancing around confusedly. 

John joined him just as the two turned and went back the way they came, answering you, “Maybe because you rarely haven’t… Care to explain why you’re hiding from the bobbies?” 

You peeked around the wall to see if they were gone and let out a giggle. “It’s not my fault they don’t like you climbing the Wellington Arch. Really, there should be a sign.” 

Sherlock couldn’t hide the smirk that tugged at his lips and John stared for a moment before setting into you. “You’ve been here less than a day and you’ve beat up some guy on the train – I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it – and now you’re climbing monuments like a bloody ape! Is going five minutes without you being in trouble with the law too much to ask? Bullocks to the law, can’t you stay out of trouble in general? Or are you just drawn to it like a magnet? Do I even want to know why you were climbing the Wellington Arch? What if you’d fallen? What was going through your head? Oh, I know; probably some deluded need to see if you’d get caught…”

You tuned him out as he continued to lecture, going to sit down in his chair. He didn’t even realize you weren’t listening as you flipped through the sketches you’d gotten before the law had arrived. The angle hadn’t been quite right from the ground, so it was either the Arch or a tree, and the Arch gave a better view. 

Sherlock came and stood behind you, looking over the rough sketches with a raised eyebrow, and then quietly rumbled, “The angle is much better from higher off the ground.” 

You didn’t look up or respond, you just grinned and a second later John abruptly stopped, “You aren’t even listening to me, are you?” 

“Nope,” You replied nonchalantly, adding details to your drawings from memory. 

He sighed and flopped down in Sherlock’s chair, muttering, “What I am going to do with you, Squeak?” 

You shrugged. “You could stop worrying so much and just go with it. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.” 

He examined you for a moment before he noticed the sketchbook on your lap, realizing suddenly why you’d done it – the same reason you did anything like that. For art. 

He got up to take Sherlock’s place over your shoulder when the man disappeared into the recesses of the apartment. “Did you at least get something good out of all that?” 

You held the book up over your head for him to take, offering, “See for yourself,” and then went to the kitchen. “I’m starving, John. What have you got besides tea?” 

He was too busy looking over your sketches to register your question properly. “I dunno. Check the fridge.” 

Sherlock walked back in just as there was squeal from the kitchen. John’s eyes widened when he realized where he’d just sent you and both men rushed to the kitchen. 

To their surprise, you had a large grin on your face, “There’s a head in the fridge! Oh, Sherlock, can I draw it? Please, please, please?” 

John gave a small smile and shook his head; you always were a strange one. “How’d you know it was his?”

You and Sherlock both rolled your eyes at him and replied in sync, “Cause it’s obviously not yours. Really, John.” 

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at you over the fact that your words mirrored his exactly, but you didn’t seem to notice. You were too occupied with giving him the biggest puppy dog eyes. 

“Please, Sherlock?”

He looked from you to the fridge and back. “You’re going to do it no matter what my answer is, so I suppose that would be alright. Just don’t touch.” 

You gave a single hop and clapped your hands together in joy. “I promise, I won’t!”


	3. Chapter 3

Just as you were grabbing your sketchbook excitedly, there was knock on the door. You caught Sherlock giving a fond grin as he pulled it open to greet an adorable older woman who you instantly knew was Mrs. Hudson.

You shifted nervously, tugging at your clothes and running a quick hand through your hair as you heard her begin, “Hello Sherlock dear. Was I mistaken in believing that today is the day John said his younger sister was to arrive?”

You felt a reassuring hand on your shoulder and looked nervously up at your brother. He knew you’d recently developed a dislike towards meeting new people because your personality tended to be a little overwhelming – at least, that’s how you’d put it. You looked at the ground as John announced, “You were not, Mrs. Hudson. This is my little sister, (F/N).”

Sherlock gave you an odd look as you quickly stuck out your hand and mumbled stiffly, “It is so very nice to meet you, Mrs. Hudson. John speaks highly of you.”

She looked at the shaky hand in confusion and then up at Sherlock who frowned at you and stated, “There is no need to be nervous around Mrs. Hudson, (F/n).”

You hesitated slightly before looking up at Sherlock, who seemed to be reading you again. Your hands itched to draw him. Simultaneously fighting the urge to do so and trusting his words, you lowered your gaze to give Mrs. Hudson your signature lopsided grin and she returned you a soft smile.

“That’s it, dear. Banish those pesky nerves. Sherlock is much more of a handful than you’ll ever be so no need to fret,” she reassured you kindly.

John piped up from behind you, “Careful, Mrs. Hudson; she may take that as a challenge.” 

You gave him a playful shove as you let out an amused chuckle before turning back to Mrs. Hudson and reaching out your hand again, this time grinning at her with a mischievous glint in your eye as she took it. “A pleasure, really, Mrs. Hudson. Though I must warn you, Johnny here may have a point. I do enjoy a challenge.”

Mrs. Hudson grinned widely and gave a soft laugh. “My dear, I think you will fit in here just fine. Would you like to see your flat?” 

You nodded enthusiastically and offered her your arm so you could chat as you descended to 221C with Sherlock and John in tow.

She was already apologizing for the flat’s sorry state as she unlocked the door but you cut her short with a little gasp as you bounded in the now open door and spun round to look at it before fixing her with a wide happy grin, “It’s perfect. I can already see it.” 

You held up your hands like a little viewfinder and squinted one eye, barely listening to what Mrs. Hudson was saying. She continued on, “You can do whatever you like to it dear, as I’m sure it would be an improvement. Wallpaper, paint, whatever. It’s your choice.” 

Your eyes went wide and you froze for a second. She was wondering if she had said something you didn’t like when you swept her up in an enormous hug. “That is simply brilliant! Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!” 

You bounced back to examine your new home for a minute and lost yourself in plans for what you were going to do and… Colors! Goodness, So many options!

Mrs. Hudson was still talking to you when Sherlock laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’m afraid you’ve lost her.”

John chuckled, “Yeah, pretty much the second you said she could paint.”

Mrs. Hudson looked back to you- you were mumbling something about purples and lighting– and then smiled. “It’ll be nice to have another woman around to look after you two.”

You clapped suddenly, making her and John jump and Sherlock smirk. 

“The head!” you exclaimed.

John rolled his eyes, “Really, Squeak? You’re back to that already?”

You waved a dismissive hand at him and wiggled your fingers impatiently as you glanced around, mumbling, “Where’s my sketchbook?”

John cut Sherlock off before he could make a scathing comment and supplied, “Upstairs.”

You froze for a moment and slapped a hand to your forehead. “Oh, right. Duh. Way to miss the obvious, (F/n).” 

Sherlock chuckled as you bounced over to Mrs. Hudson and gave her another large hug, gushing, “Thank you, thank you, thank you! It really was a pleasure meeting you, but you’ll have to excuse me. If I don’t draw that thing right this second, I’ll explode!”

You were already up the stairs and through the door before she could respond, the three of them looking after you. “Is she always like that?”

John rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Yes and no. She’s pretty enthusiastic most of the time, but there are times where she just sits there with her thoughts for hours. I think being here is more than a little overstimulating for her, what with so much to new stuff to mess with.”

You suddenly popped your head back through the flat’s door with a distracted frown on your face. “I forgot to get keys.”

“It’s alright, dear. I’ll give them to John.”

You disappeared back inside with a grateful grin and there was a small crash which caused Sherlock’s eyes to widen slightly before he bounded up the stairs. John took the keys from Mrs. Hudson, assuring her that everything was likely just fine with a small knowing grin, then jogged up the stairs to see what problem you’d gotten yourself into this time.


	4. Chapter 4

When Sherlock bounded through the door, you gave him a half-grin from the floor.

“It’s alright. Your equipment is safe, it was just a mug. One that you don’t really use, by the look of it. I’ll replace it.” 

He let out the slightest of relieved sighs and was about to leave you to clean your mess when he noticed your hand shaking slightly and then upon closer examination a good amount of blood mixed in with the split tea. 

“You’re injured,” he stated.

You sat back on your heels and muttered, “You know, for someone who doesn’t like others stating the obvious, you sure do it a lot.” 

He looked as though he was about to respond when John entered, sighing, “I hope you didn’t break something too important.” 

You flashed him a quick grin. “Just a mug, Johnny, nothing to worry about.” 

He gave you a little frown. 

“Are you alright?” he worried. 

You nodded, holding back an eye roll. “I’m fine, John.”

Sherlock negated your statement, offering, “No you aren’t. From the amount of blood on the floor, I would say your dominant hand has a rather nasty gash.” 

You glared daggers at him as John dropped to his knees next to you, careful of the glass, and took your hand gently in his. You had curled it into a protective fist when the shattered mug had sliced into it and he now pulled at your fingers to reveal the gash, the piece of porcelain still lodged in it. 

John’s eyes flicked up, entirely unamused. “That most certainly is not fine, (F/n). Why didn’t you just tell me? I would have found out eventually anyway.” 

You ducked your head down. “You’re right. Reflex. I’m sorry, John.” 

“It’s alright, Squeak. I’ll get the first aid kit,” he said as he stood, kissed the top of your head, and left the room.

Sherlock’s long fingers were suddenly waggling in your face, you took his hand with your good one and he easily lifted you to your feet. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

You looked up at him determinedly and forcefully said, “No and I intend to keep it that way.” 

He gave the slightest nod to let you know he would respect that wish and you relaxed, wordlessly thanking him with your stance. John bustled back in and stopped when he saw you and Sherlock standing rather close with your hands still linked, furrowing his brow in disapproval before clearing his throat. 

You let your hand slide from Sherlock’s and looked to your brother, immediately noticing his expression and then chuckling, “Relax, Johnny. He was just helping me up.” 

Sherlock nodded in agreement and John flicked his eyes suspiciously between the two of you before deciding to believe you. 

“You’re probably going to need stitches,” he informed you, still eyeing Sherlock.

“Fantastic,” you groaned sarcastically, following him over to the table. 

He was gentle in pulling the glass out of your hand, a fresh wave of blood surging from it as he did so. The work he did after that was quick and he took care to make it as painless as possible. 

It surprised him that you simply sat quietly, watching him work with absent eyes. You would normally curse worse than a crotchety sailor at him over the pain, joke around and tease him to let him know you were alright, or, in a couple of the more severe cases, shed a few tears as you tried to give him a reassuring grin. 

Right now, you just seemed numb. It worried him.

He finished with the bandaging and you seemed to come back to life as he stated, “(F/n), you have to let this hand heal. That means no climbing or anything like that and you should probably lay off the sketching for a while.”

You scoffed at him, already pulling your sketchbook into your lap, “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” 

He was about to scold you when you picked up your pencil with your uninjured hand and began flicking it across the paper just as you always did. He tilted his head in confusion, asking, “Since when can you draw with your other hand?” 

You didn’t look up at him, merely stating, “Since I decided I could. Stop asking obvious questions, John.” 

You heard Sherlock chuckle in approval from his place on the couch and John rolled his eyes. Great, now he had two sarcastic know-it-alls harping on him! But unlike with Sherlock, he knew this was your way of avoiding the true question. “Fine then. Why exactly did you decide to start drawing with your other hand?” 

You smiled, and replied, “It’s useful in more ways than you could ever imagine. Did you know Da Vinci was ambidextrous so he could both dissect and record observations at the same time? And it’s quite ‘handy’ in this exact situation.” 

You giggled at your own pun as you said it and put your whole attention back into what you were working on. John watched you for a moment. There was something different about you, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 

Granted, he’d seen little of you over the past year or so, but you still called every Friday like clockwork and he knew what was going on with you and you with him. So what did he notice, now you were actually in front of him, that was different from on the phone or the last time he saw you? Whatever it was, he didn’t like it.


	5. Chapter 5

It was only a couple of hours before John looked up from his computer to find you dozed off, pencil in hand, the activities of the day finally catching up with you. He slid the sketchbook off your lap, glancing briefly at your work – an array of sketches of him, Mrs. Hudson, the head, and quite a few of Sherlock – before setting it and the pencil on the table beside you. 

 

You stirred when he did, groggily mumbling, “Just let me sleep here,” as you pulled yourself into a ball around your hand and shifted to rest your head on the arm of the chair. 

“You could take my room,” John offered, to which you grunted and rolled so your back was to him.

He gave a half-smile; ever since you were a kid, you had liked to sleep curled up in an armchair. You felt safe in the small space. He covered you with a blanket and went to bed himself, leaving you in his chair and Sherlock on the couch with his eyes closed.

Once John was gone, his eyes snapped open and he examined you carefully before standing to quietly pick up your sketchbook and settle into his chair. He opened it carefully, taking note of the date, location, and name scribbled in the front.

 

You had started this particular one fairly recently – about six months earlier in Paris. Logically, that meant that there were many more of these books filled with countless sketches. He began to flip through it.

There were pages upon pages of Parisian architecture and people you’d likely drawn while watching the crowds. Every few pages there were doodles – just swirls, little cartoons, or vines – which either took up the entire page or only an empty corner of something bigger. Then there were sketches of John, drawn, he assumed, from memory, as he looked much younger. Many of the pages, he noticed, had small notes in the corner – things you needed to remember or things you’d observed. 

Sherlock came to a series of sketches, loose and unformed, though still distinctly him, just before he reached the sketches from the Wellington Arch. He looked over these carefully. You must have stopped to draw him after you’d left. 

In the corner, there was a line of almost illegible notes that read, “Sherlock Holmes. Cheeky. Arrogant. Genius. Intriguing. Caring perhaps. Further study required.” He smirked at your crude observations before flipping to your most recent sketches and his eyes widened a little. 

Despite having been drawn with your non-dominant hand, they didn’t lack in quality at all and a good portion of them were of him. Your written notes may have been simplistic, but the drawings you put down on paper relayed a much deeper understanding. Each time the lines were simple, varying in thickness and pressure, but every single one revealed details about him that he hadn’t believed others able to see. 

Maybe it wasn’t that others could see it, he reasoned as he examined an image of him smirking, maybe it was just that you could see it. He also noted there were positions and expressions within the pages he was sure you’d never actually seen from him, yet they didn’t look forced or unnatural. He glanced up at your sleeping form with narrowed eyes and wondered, how did you do it? 

It was obvious your brain couldn’t compare to his, but then, whose could? Besides Mycroft’s and that was something he’d never admit. You shifted slightly in your sleep to pull the blanket tighter around you and he decided that you were worth keeping around. At least until he figured you out more completely.

When John got up the next morning, he found Sherlock watching you from his chair and you still asleep, your breathing soft. 

“That’s creepy you know.” 

John’s voice rang out through the apartment at its normal level, you weren’t a morning person or a light sleeper, so he assumed it wouldn’t wake you. Turns out he was wrong, as Sherlock shot him a glare and you bolted up from the chair, tumbling to the floor before bouncing to your feet. 

You kept your eyes scrunched shut as you cringed slightly and words tumbled out, “I’m so sorry! I must have overslept. I’ll make breakfast right away. Please don’t be angry.” 

“Why would I be angry, Squeak?” John asked, tilting his head worriedly. 

Your eyes shot open and you glanced around, remembering where you were, mumbling, “Oh, right. London,” before turning to give your brother a sheepish grin. “Sorry, John. I just got a little disoriented. Now that I’m up, breakfast sounds like a fantastic idea.” 

You rushed past him to the kitchen to avoid any further questions, calling over your shoulder, “Are you eating, Sherlock, or is this a brain day?” 

John had told you how he rarely ate.

“No case. I’ll eat.” 

You were opening cupboards when you heard his answer and found them to be quite empty, shaking your head disapprovingly. You had expected it, to some extent, but still.

“I’ll have to go to the shop first,” you announced, going to the door and pulling on your jacket. 

John finally had a chance to get a word in, offering, “You don’t have to make breakfast or go to the store, (F/n). I can do it.” 

You just gave him a small smile, pulling open the door. “We both know that I’m a better cook and that you hate the chip and pin machines. I’ll be back in an hour or so.” 

“You don’t even know where the store is,” John said as you dashed down the stairs.

“Down the street and to the left,” you called, ducking your head back around the corner to catch his quizzical look. You smirked as you left, explaining, “Cab rides are useful in many more ways than getting from point a to b. Laterz!” 

He just stood there looking at the empty space where you had been seconds ago, lost in his thoughts, before wondering aloud to himself, “What has gotten into her? She never gets up early. I used to have to steal her blankets for her to get up and get to school on time and even then she was never properly awake till noon.”

“People change, John,” Sherlock offered lamely, trying to stay true to his promise to you despite the new wave of observations he now had. It was proving quite difficult and he found himself wondering why he felt a need to keep his promise at all. He frowned and decided that it was because he wanted more time to figure you out, to study you, before John inevitably found out and things got complicated. It was for himself and not you that he did it. Yes. That was it.

John gaped at him before narrowing his eyes. “That’s all you have to say? Where’s the long list of observations and deductions?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes convincingly, sighing, “Not worth my time.” 

John sighed, thinking, ‘Of course, he was just being an arrogant bastard, as usual,’ and went back to his morning routine as he continued to wonder about you.

Sherlock gave the slightest of smirks over having tricked John’s simple mind into believing him. He had his moments and he wasn’t totally oblivious like most of the populace, but he could so easily miss the reality of a situation. 

In truth, Sherlock was just as intrigued with you as you were with him. It seemed the more he ascertained about you, the more questions he had. And he needed those questions answered.


	6. Chapter 6

You came back burdened with glorious groceries, carefully balancing around a third of them on the forearm connected to your injured hand so it could still be useful but not actually have to do any of the work.

No sooner than you had stepped through the door with a huff, your phone let out a cry for attention and you spun slightly in its direction as if that would free your hands so you could retrieve it from your pocket. 

You scrunched up your face and hoped John was close since Sherlock wasn’t likely to move from the couch to get it for you, “JOHN!” 

He popped his head out from the kitchen, his eyes widening slightly at the mass amount of things you had, and you let out a relieved sigh, “Oh good. Would you please get my phone? It could be important.”

He approached you, hands hovering hesitantly as he tried to locate it before determining where it was and pulling it from your pocket to quickly answer it. He gaped at the pace the person on the other end started up at and then made his best attempt, “Uhh… Slow down, please… urm… could you just- if you would- one minute… u-un minute…” 

There was nothing he could do but reach over and press the phone to your ear as you let out a giggle over the situation and his confused face. You pinned the phone between your shoulder and cheek as you offered a cheery, “Bonjour!” into the receiver. 

John started taking bags from you as you nodded, pausing slightly to listen to your half of the rapid conversation that quickly ensued, “Oui, c'est moi… D'accord… Le Lundi?…Oui… C'est bon… Oui, à cinq heures. D’accord… Merci beaucoup. Au revoir!” 

You hung up the phone with your now completely free hands since John had removed all the shopping from you and did a small happy dance, “My things will be here on Monday!” 

You suddenly stopped, your face getting very serious, “There so much to do… that’s only three days away…” 

You lost yourself in your plans, shooing John out of the kitchen so you could make breakfast as you mumbled to yourself about brushes. Once both Sherlock and John had a plate in their hands, you plopped down in John’s chair and pulled your feet up to sit cross-legged, your posture perfect and your hands loosely resting in your lap. You looked like you were meditating, especially when you let your eyes slide closed. 

John raised an eyebrow, “You’re not eating then I take it?” 

You held a finger to your lips to shush him, “I need to think. Food is distracting.” 

He sighed, you were likely already in your creative space and there would be no getting through to you. Sherlock examined you curiously as you sat motionless for a bit and then began to wave your hands ever so slightly as if you were dismissing things. It was less than an hour later when you quietly unfolded yourself and left the flat without a word, Sherlock chuckling softly as he watched you go. You certainly were interesting.

That was the last they saw of you until Sunday afternoon when there was a soft knock on the door before you swung it open to trudge in and flop down across from Sherlock in John’s chair. You were covered in smudges of paint, what looked to be some grease, and, surprisingly, some sawdust. 

John emerged from the other part of the flat, “Was that the door, Sherlock? Did you- (F/n)?” 

You lifted an arm lazily as a greeting, “Mind if I use your shower? The paint’s still wet in mine.” 

He managed to nod his head through the surprise and murmured, “Yeah. Go ahead.” 

He eyed you carefully as you forced yourself out of the chair and slowly shuffled to the bathroom with a yawn. The bandage on your hand looked relatively new and you didn’t look gaunt so you’d probably been eating but you looked absolutely exhausted. He let out a displeased huff but reasoned that at least you had sort of taken care of yourself. He knew you would go for weeks on end barely eating or sleeping just to not have to stop working. 

The shower was a great improvement as you came out looking not only clean but revived, your usual grin on your face. Sherlock couldn’t help but notice you still had a smudge of lavender paint behind one ear and decided to wait and see how long it took you to figure it out instead of telling you. 

John shooed you towards the table, first aid kit in hand again, “Are you done downstairs?” 

You gave an enthusiastic nod, “It’s all ready for the movers tomorrow.” 

Nodding, he pulled your hand to him, “Alright then, let see how this is healing.” 

He uncurled your fingers from the default protective position they took around the cut and gave a pleased nod, a hint of surprise in his eyes, “It’s healing nicely. You’ve been taking good care of it.” 

You chuckled, rubbing the back of your neck nervously, “Gotta take care of the tools of my trade ya know.” 

His chuckle joined yours, “I suppose so. I guess sometimes I forget you’re all grown up and don’t need me to babysit you anymore.” 

You laughed, “You say that now but next time I get myself into a mess you’re still the one that’s going to have to bail me out.”

He let out a sighed chuckle and nodded, “I don’t think I’ll ever escape that responsibility.”

You kissed the top of his head with a smirk as you stood, “Nope. Not even when I’m nighty-six and you’re a hundred.”

He laughed and you ruffled his hair before starting to make your way back to his chair when Sherlock got a text and bounced up enthusiastically, “John!”

“We have a case I take it,” John said, unable to hide the pleased smile that tugged at his lips.

Sherlock didn’t answer, simply sweeping out the door in response, and John bounced up to follow him before he got impatient with having to wait for him. You gave your brother a little wave as he went out the door and then settled down into the chair that had been your intended destination before the sudden interruption. 

You jumped when your phone buzzed to inform you that you had a text message, it said it was from John but when you flicked it open it read, “The cab fare is already running. Do hurry. –SH” 

You bounced up, slinging your messenger bag over your shoulder as you tried to descend the stairs while pulling on your shoes. You tumbled roughly into the wall at the bend in the stairs as you lost your balance but kept going, stumbling down the rest of the stairs and then hopping to the door as you tried to tie your laces without having to stop. You gave up, bursting out the door and nearly tripping over them with a scowl as you practically fell into the cab. 

Sherlock caught your arm to steady you, “Just under a minute. Impressive. Next time try to keep up.” 

You huffed, rubbing at your shoulder where it had hit the wall, “I didn’t think you’d want me along. The stairway wall may need some repair.” 

John frowned at you as you leaned over to tie your laces properly but Sherlock started telling you both about the case so he opted not to ask how exactly you’d busted the wall in less than a minute. 

Once your laces were tied in pristine loopy bows, you pulled out a small mirror and a pouch from your bag. The next time John looked at you the bruise on your face was gone and you were using the mirror to fix your hair so it didn’t dry sticking straight out. 

He gaped, “How did you do that?” 

You snapped the mirror shut to sarcastically reply, “Magic. I couldn’t have the people you work with incorrectly assuming that I’m some sort of hoodlum now could I?” 

You could see Sherlock give a half smirk out of the corner of your eye as John floundered, “I- you- well I guess not but it looks like it was never even there.” 

You rolled your eyes, “That’s kind of the point, John.” 

This time Sherlock grinned and let out a soft chuckle as he turned to look out the window and John grumbled something obscene under his breath. You giggled and looked out the window yourself, watching the world passing by, this was going to be very entertaining.


	7. Chapter 7

You followed your brother closely as the three of you walked through the police station, trying not to get distracted by all the things there were to see. It was ridiculously difficult so you tried focusing on the people that you came upon as you walked instead of the stationary things that were tempting to stop and look at. 

You were examining a woman with a mess of curly hair that was giving off a rather bitter vibe when John stopped in front of you and you ran straight into his back at full speed. You tumbled backward to the floor, holding a hand over your nose as you softly cursed, “Merde… of all the bloody…” 

Sherlock was looking down at you in an unamused way as John extended a hand. You blushed bright red and shook your head, getting up by yourself to examine the floor, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of… well everyone.” 

Sherlock’s face softened and John wrapped an arm around you with a frown, “It’s alright Squeak. I should have known you were looking around. Is your nose ok?”

You nodded, sneaking a quick apologetic look at Sherlock, worried he was angry, and when your eyes caught his, he had this feeling that began to tug at the very edges of his mind. 

He felt bad, guilty even, for making you look at him that way. He didn’t want you to look at him like that. What was it? This feeling… it was annoying. He resolved that it was because you looked dull when you looked at him with that face, lacking the intelligence and fire that usually filled your eyes. He despised dull. 

He gave you a slight smile, more of an almost undetectable lifting of one corner of his mouth, and as expected you caught it, giving a half grin, which he determined was at least better than no grin. They started walking again and this time you followed but at a slight distance, watching John’s feet instead of looking around like you so desperately wanted to. 

You didn’t look up until you walked through an office door, glancing at the name on it and very nearly bumping into John for a second time but this time Sherlock’s hand caught your shoulder firmly. He had anticipated that there was a very high likely hood that it would happen again and when you flashed him a grateful look he offered you a small half smile in return. 

Now that you weren’t moving you could look around properly. The office was well lit- mostly glass walls- and a large desk with a black task lamp and a mess of papers on it sat slightly off center towards the back window. You reasoned that if you ever had to have an office one like this might be nice, plenty of natural light, and then you turned your attention to the man in the squishy looking chair. 

He was already deep in conversation with Sherlock and you tilted your head slightly as you looked him over from your place behind John. He seemed nice, obviously respectful of Sherlock, and a little cheeky. 

You leaned around John slightly to get a better look at him and he visibly startled, “Watson, I think you’ve acquired a shadow.” 

You couldn’t help but giggle, that expression would definitely be going in your sketchbook later, and then offered your good hand, “I didn’t mean to startle you Detective Inspector. I’m (F/n). I hope you had a fantastic holiday.” 

He stopped mid-shake, “How’d you know I’d been on holiday?” 

You and Sherlock simultaneously answered, “Tan.” 

Lestrade’s eyes flicked between you and Sherlock, his hand still clasping yours, “Do you have a last name (F/n)?” 

You flashed him a grin, “Watson. (F/n) Watson. Johnny’s my older brother.” 

He released your hand and looked up at Sherlock, “Are you collecting Watsons now?” 

Sherlock just shrugged, “I can’t help it if they’re both particularly intrigued by me.” 

John gaped, “I’m not intrigued with you, you arrogant twat.” 

You hardly noticed that they had set into bickering, having moved to lean against the doorframe so you could look out on the level since you hadn’t been able to before. Your eyes had hardly finished scanning the area when a brunette man popped up in your peripheral vision and you turned to raise an eyebrow at him as if asking what he wanted. 

He gave you a suggestive grin, “I haven’t seen you around here before. Could I give you a tour?” 

You turned him down immediately, not liking the vibe you were getting, “I don’t date law enforcement or married men for that matter.” 

Sherlock had turned at the sound of your voice and was about to tell Anderson to sod off when he leaned in a little closer, “Who said anything about dating? You look like a girl who likes to have fun.” 

All three men inside the office were watching now, John and Lestrade having followed Sherlock’s gaze when he stopped speaking abruptly, and even Sherlock was surprised by what you did next. 

You grinned seductively and moved ever so slightly closer to him, “Do you speak French, Mr. Fun?” 

He shook his head, surprised at your sudden willingness, “It’s Anderson and No. None.” 

Your grin widened and, in as seductive of a tone as you could manage, you breathed, “Tu as le corps d'un chien et l'intelligence d'un gamin de cinq ans. Espèce d'abruti. Va te faire foutre” 

Lestrade choked on his coffee, falling into a coughing fit, and Anderson assumed you said something dirty, grinning like the idiot he was. 

You called over your shoulder as you made your way to the elevator, “I need some air. Meet me outside when you’re done. À bientôt, Lestrade. Fascinating to meet you, Anderson.” 

You gave a little wave as the elevator doors closed and Lestrade recovered, “I would wipe that smile off your face, Anderson. She just said you have the body of a dog and the intelligence of a five year old…. And I’m pretty sure that last part was her calling you a stupid twat right before something I’m not willing to translate.” 

Anderson’s face turned bright red and Sherlock couldn’t help but snigger as John laughed out right, “You might want to stay away from my sister from now on. I can assure you her language will only get more colorful.” 

The man left, tail between his legs, and Lestrade grinned, “I like her. Will you be keeping her around, Sherlock?” 

“We shall see.” The consulting detective said with a secretive smile.


	8. Chapter 8

You leaned against the outer wall of New Scotland Yard smirking to yourself over your previous behavior. It had been immensely satisfying and you weren’t going to let that little voice in the back of your head ruin that. At least you thought you weren’t. 

You shivered suddenly as a series of unwelcome memories surfaced and the voice pointed to them like an insistent and annoyed professor repeating a lesson for the hundredth time. You shook your head hoping the action would cause them to dissolve like an image on an etch-a-sketch. It worked to some extent and you took a deep breath as you reminded yourself that you didn’t have to think that way anymore, that you could be yourself and only yourself. 

Sighing heavily, you leaned back further to let the wall support most of your weight, glad that you’d had the foresight to come outside. The last thing you needed was for John to think something was up or for Sherlock to read more from you than he already had. 

You let your eyes wander over the people passing on the street in front of you, lazily noting random things about the more interesting ones in your head. Had you been sitting you would have pulled out your sketchbook and drawn a few as you often had when living in France. Anonymous people were a good way to keep your abilities exercised with little emotional connection and a fantastic way to pass the time. 

Sherlock and John emerged from the building a short while later and you pushed off the wall to join them as Sherlock hailed a cab, sliding into it to quietly draw Lestrade in your sketchbook while they discussed the case. You listened peripherally for anything of importance as you flicked the pen across the page.

 

The cab pulled up to St. Bart’s and you all but stumbled out of it after your companions. You looked up at the large building with a frown but there wasn’t time for you to be hesitant with Sherlock and John already a number of meters away and the distance continuing to grow. Skipping forward to catch up with them, you linked your arm with John’s to avoid running into him this time and soon you were walking into the morgue. 

You bounced forward to survey the equipment on a long table, clasping your hands behind your back in an effort to quell the urge to touch things that you shouldn’t. A door across the room opened and when you raised your eyes they found a young woman with smooth brown hair furrowing her brow at you, “Who’s this Sherlock?” 

You looked to the tall man, curious as to how he would introduce you, and found that he looked bored. 

“That is (F/n). We’re here to see the body,” he offered in a slightly rude tone and the woman looked taken aback. You frowned at him before turning to grin at her, “I think you know well enough to ignore his tone. I’m (F/n) Watson, John’s little sister.” 

She nodded, looking between you, Sherlock, and John for a moment, and then snapped out of her thoughts with a little shake of her head, “Oh right. Sorry. I’m Molly Hooper. Let’s take a look at that body.” 

You followed her into another room, Sherlock had gotten impatient and strode past her and through the door already, and examined her as she pulled out a corpse for Sherlock to look at. She was saying something that was no doubt important but you couldn’t focus, something else distracting you. 

A few minutes passed and you couldn’t stand it anymore, letting out a small, frustrated growl as you stepped up to Molly, “Would you stop talking and stand still a minute?” 

John gaped at you, scolding words and apologies already tumbling out of his mouth and Molly had stopped talking out of shock. You ignored John, using the edge of your sleeve to wipe the lipstick off of a very confused Molly’s lips. 

When you’d finished you pulled a tube of lipstick out of one of the pockets of your bag, giving her a reassuring smile as you went to color her lips with it, “Don’t worry it’s new…I’m sorry but I just couldn’t concentrate. I hate to see someone so pretty and smart wearing a color that doesn’t compliment their skin tone. It’s a shame in my opinion.” 

You finished with a grin and placed the capped tube in her hand, “Much better. Keep it. I insist. I’m a bit of a lipstick junkie so I have others and I’m convinced that it looks better on you than it ever would on me.” 

She floundered a bit but you just smiled and spun her so she could see her reflection and her hand went to hover over her lips as she slowly smiled and managed a thank you. 

John gave the back of your head a light slap, “Was it really bothering you that much? You do realize that was rude?” 

You pressed your hand over where his hand had made contact with your head and tried desperately to keep your emotions under control, ducking your head down as you mumbled, “Sorry John. I was just trying to help but I see now that it was rude.” 

John’s expression went from annoyed to concerned, he had expected you to give him a grin and a shove while you confidently defended your actions as you normally did. He stepped closer to you and you involuntarily flinched away causing him to frown. 

Sherlock cut off whatever he was about to say in response to your actions, impatiently stating, “It’s a vast improvement, Molly. Now you were saying?” 

You stepped over to examine the body and escape John as Molly started up again, your attention now on her words and not the offending lipstick. You didn’t know if Sherlock had done that to rescue you from having to answer John’s questions or if he was simply being impatient but either way the distraction was welcome and you were grateful. 

You focused on the body, noticing various things as Molly explained how the man died and some running theories. You tilted your head after a moment, quietly stating almost to yourself, “He was recovering from almost drowning when he was strangled.” 

Molly startled, “Yes. How did you know that?” 

You shrugged, eyes still scanning to corpse, “I used to read John’s old textbooks when I got bored. The pictures were useful,” you tilted your cheek up slightly to address Sherlock, “Could it be that the killer’s first attempt was a failure? Something interrupted him and the strangulation was his way of cleaning up his mess?” 

“That would be a fair assumption,” Sherlock responded, giving you a proud half smile as you tilted your head to the other side before turning away from him and the body. 

You felt out of your element, sure you read about things but you never actually did anything with the information and honestly you’d always been more interested in the diagrams of human anatomy. Your fingers itched to draw so you could either think or lose yourself in the action, right now preferring the latter so you could block out the many events of the day that were crowding your mind. 

You could feel a sense of exhaustion settling in and tried to fight back a yawn as you slumped to press your forehead into John’s shoulder. He gave a relieved smile at the normal action, writing off your previous behavior as the effects of your inevitable exhaustion from the day and the work you’d done in your flat. 

He rubbed a comforting hand down your back, “If we’re done here, Sherlock, I think it’s time for us to head back to the flat.” 

You straightened, shaking your head, “No. I can get back on my own if you need to stay or go somewhere else.” 

“Let’s go. We were done here anyway,” Sherlock said flatly, moving toward the door. 

John smiled at Molly before following him, “Thank you, Molly. We’ll be seeing you soon I’m sure.” 

You hung back and offered her a grin, “It was nice meeting you. Really. I’m very sorry for before.” 

She grinned widely at you, “It’s alright. I was certainly nicer than the things Sherlock normally does. Did you just move to London? I could show you around sometime if you’d like. Everyone needs a friend in a new city.” 

You grinned, “I’d like that a lot. Those two are either too smart to be bothered or too terribly fretful to be any fun.” 

She laughed and you exchanged numbers on your way into the other room. It was good to know you could still make friends.


	9. Chapter 9

You fell asleep on Sherlock’s shoulder in the cab after trying with all your might to stay awake, your head bobbing up and down as you nodded off only to pull yourself out of it. 

He looked down at you for a moment when your head hit his shoulder and John was sure he was going to shrug you off but he simply turned to look back out the window. 

John was beginning to think the two of you were hiding something. He wasn’t stupid after all and you were both acting strangely. Sherlock had been not only rather quiet about you but he also was being surprisingly friendly and you would seem like your usual self and then all of the sudden you’d do something worrisome. 

He pursed his lips, you would tell him if something was wrong, there were hardly any secrets between you two and certainly none that really mattered. He had always been close with you, all the way from running around with your pudgy hand in his as kids to calling you in the middle of the night when he had nightmares after he returned from Afghanistan. 

You would tell him… wouldn’t you? 

Sherlock watched John in the reflection of the window, his friend’s thoughts could easily be read from his face. He knew John wasn’t completely oblivious and, even though you had tried your best, the events of the day had given him a number of clues that would no doubt eventually lead to him figuring it out. 

For reasons he didn’t understand, Sherlock’s heart had skipped a beat when John had playfully slapped you. His initial determination was that he had been worried for your emotional well being as you were proving a promising associate and the case wasn’t over. In his mind, that logic was still sound but he now added that he also would rather John stayed in the dark for a while longer. 

What he refused to acknowledge was the urge to comfort you that had come along with that feeling at the edges of his mind again. He had ignored it then but now, with your head on his shoulder, it was back in full force. He refused to give in to its demands to be analyzed, pushing it away and back into the corner of his mind where he stored things that would be deleted when new information was acquired. 

He had no need for something that annoyed him as that did. Did he? 

When the cab pulled up to the flat John went to wake you but Sherlock glared at him so he turned to pay the cabbie instead, leaving Sherlock to deal with the fact that you were still asleep on his shoulder. 

You woke to a deep voice softly calling your name and groggily tucked your nose into the surface you were resting on. It was warm, you wanted to keep sleeping, and the voice was so soft it was almost soothing. You felt the hum of an unreleased chuckle and the voice murmured, “You have to wake up now (F/n).” 

Your mind registered that only barely as it wondered if the voice was real or not. How could it be? It was too gentle. You were used to yelling or some sort of pain being your wake up call, this voice must be your subconscious’s way of helping you to avoid that. 

You took in a long slow breath of air through your nose and pulled your head from were it was to sit up, the palm of your hand rising to rub at your eye in an attempt to get the sleep out of it. You mumbled a thank you to the voice, sincerity ringing through your soft sleep-burdened voice. It had been a while since you’d been woken up so delicately and just because it wasn’t real didn’t mean you weren’t grateful. 

You recognized John’s voice when it called to you, “Come on Squeak. Let’s get you to bed.” 

You nodded rather like a child, still rubbing your eye, and took the hand he extended to you, allowing him to pull you out of the cab, through the door, and up to the flat. Your brain started to come out of it as you blinked to try and adjust your eyes to your environment with a yawn, “We’re home? Did I fall asleep in the cab?” 

John pressed his lips to your temple as he wrapped a supportive arm around you, “You did. Come on you can sleep in my bed tonight.” 

You shook your head, pulling from him to trudge over to his chair but, in your sleepy state, you ended up in Sherlock’s instead and before John could do anything you were asleep again. He sighed, you were technically his responsibility, which meant he was likely going to get scolded by the chair’s owner in a moment. Either that or the man would wake you so you would move but given his behavior in the cab John doubted that was likely. 

He turned to give Sherlock an apologetic look and found him looking at you, the slightest of fond smiles on his face, and, before John could question it, he unceremoniously tossed the blanket from the couch over you and then flopped down on the couch in his thinking position.

John tilted his head, mouth sitting slightly open as he tried to process what had just happened before deciding it was too much and heading off to his room to escape the whole thing. 

Sherlock was still awake when you groaned and sat up in the wee hours of the morning, grumbling about your brain and its ideas and couldn’t it at least have the decency to have them during the waking hours. 

You ruffled your hair and ran a hand down your face before rolling your shoulders and then getting up. Sherlock looked asleep to you, though he wasn’t, so you quietly scooped up your bag and pulled on your coat. You trudged down the stairs as quietly as you could and left the flat, locking the door behind you. 

Sherlock was immensely curious as to where you were going this early in the morning and quickly decided to follow you. He knew you would notice him if he wasn’t careful so he kept a good distance as you briskly walked down the quiet streets of London. You walked for a good long while, a little over half an hour, before you stopped at St. James’s Palace. 

He tucked himself out of the way so he could watch you as you strode over to the lone guardsman and positioned yourself in front of him. Even at a distance Sherlock could see this made the man uneasy but you didn’t back down, you just stared at him until he seemed to relax a little. Sherlock didn’t see the point of this and was about to go grab you and drag you back home, approaching you slowly, when your hand shot out and the guard let out a barking laugh, doubling over. 

You’d tickled a guardsmen. 

The man was not happy about that, almost immediately calling for back up, and you spun with a gleeful grin to make your escape, pausing only for a moment when you saw Sherlock. You grabbed his hand, pulling him away at a run as sirens could be heard in the distance. You kept that pace until you were a good distance away and then slowed to a walk, keeping his hand in yours and panting with a smile that seemed to be permanently plastered across your face. 

Once you’d caught your breath, you spoke, eyes staying on the sidewalk ahead, “John is to know nothing about this.” 

Sherlock stayed silent and you looked at him out of the corner of your eye, he smirked at you and you dissolved into a fit of giggles with him joining you after a moment. 

“I can’t believe that worked,” you gasped, leaning against his arm.

“He’ll likely never trust anyone who stops to look at him again. You’ve ruined a Queen’s Guard,” Sherlock offered with a grin. 

You slapped a hand over you mouth as you laughed, “Oh god I have, haven’t I?” 

You looked over your shoulder, playfully asking, “D’you think I should go back and apologize?” 

It was his turn to tug at you, picking up his pace slightly, “Having to explain to John why you’re in prison at this time of night is not something I find interesting in the slightest.” 

He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see you give a yawn followed by a sleepy chuckle, which caused him to stop abruptly, catching you against his chest when you inevitably ran into him, and hail a cab. You dozed against his shoulder again during the short cab ride back to the flat and the feeling tugged at the edges of his mind again. It had been for a while now. 

He furrowed his brow. Maybe this was something worthy of analyzing since it certainly didn’t seem to be staying where he’d put it. Pesky little thing. He decided to put it in the corner again to see if it would stay there this time and then turned is attention to you. You were smirking even in your sleep and he couldn’t help but think of all the adventures the future had in store with you by his and John’s side.


	10. Chapter 10

Monday came and brought your things with it, leaving you with a small collection of furniture and a little hill of boxes. You had already told everyone they weren’t allowed to see the flat until it was done and, thankfully, you not only didn’t have much, but you had also been thorough with your labeling and organizing when packing, so the task was quick and relatively painless. 

You were completely done by the end of the week, unpacking the last box of books and shoving them on your shelf. When everything was finally put away in its proper place, you flopped down in the worn leather wing back chair, your chair, pulling a bundle of canvases with you. You ran a shaky hand over them with a frown, each one was a variation of an ominous and depressing grey. 

Just straight grey. 

You’d wanted to toss them instead of moving them with you, to leave them behind like all the memories you were trying to escape, but canvases were expensive and, to some extent, you felt like you needed them. Like they were a part of you. 

You stoked one absentmindedly, remembering the frustrations you’d had when you were making it. Each one had started off a relatively normal, if not beautiful, painting but it was like at some point you’d hit a trigger and lose it, covering everything with the same flat gray you felt inside your soul. 

It had been nearly two years since you’d made something that didn’t turn out that way and for a year and a half of it, you hadn’t painted at all. The six canvases in front of you now had come from the past six months, one for each month of trying and ending up with the same result. You resolved to go out and get a tub of the gesso to paint each one back to its original white for a fresh start, just like your life. A fresh start for everything. 

You came back from your trip to the art store with a thoughtful smile on your face, bypassing your flat to go up to your brother’s. Sherlock was lying on the couch, as usual, when you walked in and you tossed him a roll of cash. He caught it and then looked at it little skeptically as you walked into the kitchen, offering over your shoulder, “Your brother says Hello. Though it was more implied than outright.” 

Sherlock sat up with a smirk, impressed with your reasoning, “You thought it through. John didn’t when he was abducted.”

You came to the doorway to look at him, kettle in hand, “Abducted is such an unfriendly word. I prefer collected. The warehouse bit was a little cliché but I must say it suits him.” 

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at you, “And he told you his relation to me?” 

You laughed, shaking your head, “No but it was rather obvious to anyone paying attention.” 

John walked in just then and you disappeared back into the kitchen after throwing a hello in his direction. Sherlock held up the roll of money with a smirk, “What are you going to tell him then?” 

You giggled, “Well there are a number of options- I could tell him the truth but that’s far too boring and all together no fun at all, I can tell him what you want me to tell him, or I can get creative and tell him utter nonsense and make it seem true.” 

“Tell who?” John asked, joining you in the kitchen to pull down some mugs.

“Mycroft.” You and Sherlock answered simultaneously and John blanched, eliciting a soft giggle from you, “Come now, he’s not all that scary.” 

John frowned at you, “Not all that scary? I still don’t know what he does but it gives him limitless power and he abducts people on a regular basis.” 

You took your mug and chided him before going to the livingroom, “Collects.” 

“What?” 

“He collects people. Abducting implies malicious intentions.” You corrected sinking down onto the couch next to Sherlock to sip at your tea. 

You nodded your head to the money in his hands, “I figured that would hold you over till your next paying case. Any preference as to which option I choose?” 

John was floundering slightly, “Wait. Mycroft picked you up and asked you to spy on Sherlock and you agreed?” 

“Of course, John. Though it’s hardly spying when you both know about it.” 

Sherlock nodded in agreement, studying you carefully, “Do you really believe you can come up with passable nonsense without him seeing through it?” 

You smirked over your mug, “Oh, I know I can.” 

Sherlock’s own smirk turned devious, “Let’s have a little fun then, shall we?” 

You giggled, “Good choice,” before setting down your tea, “That reminds me.”

You pulled your bag into your lap and then flicked Sherlock on the ear, “That was for not telling me about the paint behind my ear that Mycroft so graciously pointed out has been there for a week and,” you paused to reach into your bag and pull out a mug, “this is to replace the one I broke.”

The mug was on the larger side in a sort of earthen style ceramic with a raised swirling pattern that, coupled with the matte dark blue glaze, gave the appearance of waves. 

Recognizing it immediately, John sort of gaped as Sherlock took it with a raised eyebrow, “You made this. It has your signature swirled on the bottom and a date that puts it at nearly five years old but it’s well taken care of. Always washed and dried by hand. Used often since you obviously favor it. The one you broke, you said yourself, was hardly used, obviously of little importance, and this one seems to hold some sentimental meaning to you so I would say that it is of far more value than the one you aim to replace. Which brings me to this question,” he turned to look at you, “Why would you want to part with it over that?”

You ducked your head, you’d expected his deductions but they still seemed to be able to catch you off guard, “I felt bad for breaking yours and I know John has always favored the pattern on this one and you often wear that particular shade of blue, so I came to the conclusion that it would likely be more useful than the one I broke. I didn’t want to give you something useless.”

John was about to say that they couldn’t accept it, he knew it was your favorite mug after all, but Sherlock was quick to flatly respond, “I don’t want this.”

He watched an extremely hurt look flash across your face as John hissed at him, “Sherlock!”

“No. It’s okay John. It was a stupid idea anyway,” you said in an even tone as you stood and took the mug from Sherlock’s hands, going to the door, “I’ll be downstairs.”

John looked like he might hit Sherlock as he fumed, “You ungrateful idiot, she was willing to give you her favorite mug because she felt guilty and thought you might like it and you don’t even have the decency to turn her down gently? Have you no sympathy?”

Sherlock didn’t answer him, flopping back down into his thinking position with a frown. He hadn’t meant to hurt you but he very obviously had, in fact, he’d been trying to be nice. He didn’t want you to give up your favorite mug over a silly accident, especially when you’d gotten hurt because of it. This is why he didn’t try to be nice. It always backfired. It was so much easier to just say what he wanted and at least have them be mad or hurt for an actual reason. He closed his eyes to think, noticing that his chest hurt, and wondered if he should have John make sure he wasn’t ill. Why else would his chest feel like his heart was slowly being torn in two?


	11. Chapter 11

You calmly shut the door to your flat behind you but inside you wanted to scream and throw the mug at the wall. Nothing good could come of that, you were aware of that fact, and if you did you would likely regret it almost instantaneously. So instead you carefully set the mug down on your kitchen counter and stared at it for a moment.

None of the dishes in your cabinets matched, save for a few teacup and saucer sets, and that was the way you had always liked it. It had even been an advantage over the past few years because it was far easier to replace a dish that went sailing into the wall when you didn’t have to worry about a pattern. 

You sank to the floor, still looking up at the mug. Every piece of dishware you had was relatively new, having been replaced multiple times over the past two years. All of them except this one. 

By some small miracle that mug had survived time and time again. It was like a beacon, a small blue reminder that you could get through it all because if something as fragile as that could make it through then, you could too. 

You had wanted them to have it. John had always sought it out when he visited so you knew he wouldn’t let it go to waste and you were so grateful to Sherlock for everything he’d done for you since you’d been here. You knew that it wasn’t something easy for him and it was completely outside of his character which made those instances, no matter how trivial and small they seemed, all the more important. 

 

Why couldn’t he just take the stupid mug? 

You slowly stood and went to the living room to flop down on your small gothic style red velvet couch, throwing your heels onto its arm so you would fit across it. 

He was such a twat. A handsome and seriously interesting twat, but a twat all the same. You couldn’t even draw to take your mind off of it because every time you picked up a pencil, it eventually chose to draw him. You pulled both of your hands down your face in an aggravated groan before rolling off the couch and onto the floor, letting the cool wood panels press against your skin. 

Your heart hurt and you cursed it, it had been numb for so long and this is what it finally chose to feel? This hurt over a stupid mug? You could feel tears welling up in your eyes and you scolded yourself harshly. You’d been through much worse without your lip even quivering, you weren’t about to let this stupid mug and that twat change that. 

You were supposed to be enjoying life damn it. You tried to remind yourself of this, fingers going to the long scar hidden beneath the hair just behind your right ear. You stroked it lightly, taking a couple of deep breaths, and soon you felt better, at least to the point where you were no longer in danger of crying. 

Deciding that you needed to get out to get your mind off everything- hiding things from John, your memories, the genius twat, everything- you pulled yourself off the ground and went to find some appropriate clothes for a night out.

John was just coming down to check on you when you stepped out of your apartment and went to lock the door. You had on a pair of electric blue metallic leather pants that looked like they’d been painted on, a white short sleeve crop top and sleeveless black vest combo that showed of your midriff and hugged every curve, all over a pair of black platform stilettos. Your hair was in a loose braid that arched down the side of your neck and your make up was striking, with heavy winged black eyeliner, full lashes, and a bright shade of lipstick that made your lips pop. 

You looked gorgeous, the perfect amount of sexy with the slightest dash of trashy for a night out. For John though, you were his little sister and the standards changed slightly, making this the outfit from hell. 

He frowned at you as you twisted the key in the lock, “You are not going out like that.” 

You snorted, “Like hell, I’m not. What are you going to do? Stop me?” 

John’s jaw clenched as he tried not to get angry with you, “Alright then. Where are you going?”

You rolled your eyes, “Out.” 

He inhaled slowly, “Out where?” 

“Just out! What does it matter?” you snapped. 

He lost it, angrily bellowing, “It matters, (F/n), because I want you to be safe. You don’t even know where you’re going and you’re dressed like that, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. What has gotten into you lately? I know you! You don’t get up early, you don’t flinch when people mess around with you, and you certainly don’t go out to god knows where dressed like that.” 

The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them, “You don’t know anything about me!” 

You regretted it almost instantaneously, seeing the hurt flicker across John’s face, but you were too angry to try and patch things up, so you spun to storm out of the flat.  
It was just another thing to add to the list of things you were going to drink to forget.

John let out a frustrated yell as Mrs. Hudson popped her head out just in time to see you leave and Sherlock emerged from the flat, finally deciding that whatever was going on might be worth his time. John spun to point a finger at him, “This is your fault. If you had just taken the bloody mug, she wouldn’t be upset and feel like she has to go out dressed like some harlot.”

Sherlock merely quirked an eyebrow at him and John sunk down to sit on the steps with his head in his hands, Mrs. Hudson coming over to wrap a comforting arm around him. 

He inhaled slowly, calming his anger, and lifted his head, “What if she’s right? What if I don’t know anything about her? She’s my sister for god’s sake… and she’s been acting so strange…” 

Mrs. Hudson soothed him, “I’m sure it’s not like that, dear. Even a blind man could see how close you two are.” 

He buried his face in his hands again, “Then what is it? How can she be so different and still the same?” 

“It’s learned behavior,” rang out Sherlock’s voice from the top of the stairs. 

John’s eyes snapped up, “You know something don’t you?” 

The man was silent, slipping back into the flat before John could question him any further. He was going to have to tell him now, you’d likely be mad but you were mad at him already so what did it matter. John quickly climbed the stairs leaving Mrs. Hudson at the bottom. 

He burst through the door, “Tell me.” 

Sherlock didn’t move a muscle and John demanded through clenched teeth, “You tell me what you know right this second or I won’t ever go on a case with you again.” 

Only Sherlock’s lips moved, “She came here to escape an abusive relationship. It’s fairly obvious if you’d been paying attention.” 

John slowly sank down into his chair in shock, shaking his head, “No. That’s not right… She wouldn’t-“ 

Sherlock sighed, he was going to have to spell it out for him, “Think about it, John. The uneasiness over meeting new people, knowing how long it would take her bruise to heal and how to cover it, her hesitation to tell you she was hurt, her guilt over the mug and over embarrassing us when she fell at the Yard, her ability to use her opposite hand just as well as her dominant one, the fact that she sleeps lightly and gets up early and when she didn’t she assumed you’d be angry, the fact that she took care of her hand when she normally wouldn’t, and her reaction to your play fighting. It all points to her having been abused both physically and emotionally. Likely by someone in law enforcement, given her reaction to Anderson’s advances. She got out of it six months ago if her sketchbook is anything to go by, and, from how deeply the behavior is ingrained into her, I’d say she was with him for over a year.”

John had his hands covering his face by the end, “How did I not notice? Why didn’t she tell me?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything more, what else could he say? The questions John had weren’t for him; they were for you.


	12. Chapter 12

You woke up the next morning in your own bed, alone, and you praised heaven that that was the case. You were even still completely clothed, shoes and everything. You rolled slowly out of bed, looking as if you were going to end up on the floor before you carefully straightened, holding your head in one hand as the hangover set in. 

You were not a partier by any means, you had always leaned towards the more laid back artist and musician types that sat around with wine or beer to chat about life. Now that didn’t mean they never partied, the parties were just way more interesting than the simple club scene with the dancing and gyrating beats. A friend of yours had even peed off the Eiffel tower once when he was drunk enough. You, on the other hand, did out there things without having to drink so you usually only had a beer or two unless you really felt like letting loose. 

And last night you let loose- Jello shots, straight whiskey, mixed drinks, the works- and you were definitely feeling it. You were honestly probably still drunk, it wouldn’t surprise you in the slightest. You looked in the mirror and fixed your makeup and hair before going to do what you needed to do, carefully tottering up the stairs and to John’s door. 

You leaned on the frame as you knocked, then waited for it to open, and, to your surprise, it was Sherlock who answered. His cheeks went the slightest shade of pink darker as he took in your appearance and you frowned at him, “Fantastic. The one time the handsome twat opens the door… Merde. You spoilt brat genius, Vas te faire foutre. ” 

Sherlock smirked at the fact that you’d called him handsome as you slowly slurred into a long string of curses flipping between English and French- yeah definitely still drunk- and then sighed heavily, “Alright twat. Wipe that smirk off your face and make yourself useful by finding me John.”

You wobbled dangerously towards the stairs as you pushed off the door frame and he caught your arm to pull you inside, causing you to protest loudly, “I said find me John not yank me inside the flat, you idiot.”

John heard that from his room and quickly came to see what was going on, finding you glaring at Sherlock who was still holding your arm to help you keep upright even though you were no longer wobbling. You yanked away from him and went to sink into John’s chair, rubbing your temple slightly before leaning to pull off your shoes.

Concern laced John’s voice as he came to take your face in his hands, “Jesus, (F/n), how much did you drink?”

You sighed, “I’m not actually sure but it’s not important. I came to apologize for what I said last night.”

One of your hands went to cover the ones cupping your cheeks as you looked up into your brother’s eyes, “I’m so sorry, John. I didn’t mean what I said. You know me even better than I know myself sometimes.”

He could see the pain in your eyes over the fact that you had hurt him and sincerity laced your voice, so he leaned forward and kissed your forehead, “I’m as much to blame as you, Squeak. I shouldn’t have lost my temper with you. Now wait here and I’ll get you some tea and Advil to help with the hangover.”

You frowned at him, “You know I don’t-“

“You don’t take pills. Yeah. This time you’re going to.” He finished for you.

He left and you suddenly noticed that Sherlock was staring at you from his chair and like the day you had met him you stared back. Your gaze did not help the fact that his brain’s hard drive was overheating. 

That feeling at the edges of his mind was back with renewed force, overwhelming more than just the edges now and making it a little difficult to think. He had never been more annoyed at himself then right then, why couldn’t his body just cooperate? 

He was beginning to feel drawn to apologizing to you. He didn’t like that you were angry with him and he knew that underneath that there was a hurt that he had caused and he didn’t like that either. He was trying desperately to come up with a logical reason for those dislikes but, as he couldn’t seem to think straight, he was unsuccessful. 

You shifted in your chair, breaking eye contact as you pressed a hand over your eyes to block out the light, and he took a moment to look you over again. He found himself both hating the outfit and loving it at the same time. 

It wasn’t that you looked attractive, of course not, he didn’t think those things, they were a waste of his time, it was that… well, he didn’t know what it was really. Just that it wasn’t that. 

On the other hand, he found himself agreeing with John. You shouldn’t go out dressed like that, the probability of something awful happening to you went up astronomically. It wasn’t that he didn’t want anyone to see you and claim you as theirs, nope not that at all. He was only worried for your safety and even then only because you were more interesting and useful than the brainless idiots that populated this planet. 

That was all. Nothing more nothing less. 

He forced everything back into the corner of his mind and this time put up a little barrier in hopes that that would keep it there.

You could feel his eyes on you even with your hand blocking out the world and you seethed, “Take a picture it’ll last longer.”

Why was he staring at you? You just wanted him to leave you alone but of course, geniuses don’t do that do they. They needed to study things all the time and for some reason, he felt like you were the perfect subject. You sighed, you couldn’t be mad at him forever but you weren’t forgiving him any time soon. Not without an apology, and you knew that was never going to happen. 

You wished John would hurry up already and briefly considered leaving, you’d done what you’d come to do. A pang of guilt over your words reverberated through your chest and you decided you needed to stay, so you kept your fingers busy with slowly untangling your hair from its braid. You had just finished when the world spun slightly and the throbbing in your head intensified, so you leaned forward to put it between your knees, your now wavy hair falling forward around your face like a curtain. 

John happened to come in with the tea at that exact moment and, with your hair in that position, the scar it covered was clearly visible. The cup slipped from John’s hands, shattering as it made contact with the floor, and you snapped your head up to look at him, quickly pressing a palm to your forehead to quell the spinning it caused, “Johnny? What’s the matter?” 

He was pale and just stared at you for a moment before stepping forward to brush back your hair and get a better look at your scar. You pulled from him slightly but you knew it was too late, he’d already seen it. His fingers traced it very gently, causing you to shiver, and he quickly removed them from it. 

The scar was still pink, indicating that it was new, and curved from just above your ear to just to the right of the base of your skull. It was long, about three inches so, and not very wide but John knew it had been deep and dangerously close to your spinal cord.

“What happened?” he breathed, still in shock, and you floundered before burying your face in your hands, “John… I… I-I can’t…” 

He pulled you to him, “Please tell me, (F/n). I need to hear it from you.” 

You buried your face into his shoulder with a bitter chuckle, “I should have known he wouldn’t keep his mouth shut.” 

You pulled away from him to look at your lap, “I got myself into something I couldn’t get out of, no matter how hard I tried… and then one day I tried to leave and he lost it. He went too far and hit me with a frying pan. The sharp edge came down hard right were that scar is. I-I’m not really sure what happened after that except that he left and there was blood everywhere. I had called a couple of friends to come pick me up and they took me to the hospital when they found me.” 

Your voice dropped to barely above a whisper, “When I woke up, the doctors told me if they hadn’t shown up when they did I would have died and if the frying pan had been just an inch further to the left it either would have killed me or I would have been paralyzed. I got lucky.” 

John didn’t know what to say. He’d almost lost you and hadn’t even known it. Even Sherlock was a little shocked, you’d hid the scar well enough that he hadn’t known, and anger bubbled up inside of him. 

“Why didn’t the hospital call me? I’m your emergency contact. Why didn’t you call me, (F/n)? Why didn’t you say something all those times we talked on the phone?” John tumbled. 

You buried your face in your hands for a moment and then answered, “He made me change my emergency contact to him. I didn’t call because I didn’t know what I would say and I never said anything because he would have punished me even more and not let me call you again. I would have lost it completely if I couldn’t call you.” 

The sob you’d been trying to hold back escaped and you pressed a hand over your mouth to try and silence it before looking up at your brother, “I’m so sorry, John.” 

He gently tugged you to him, wrapping his arms around you tightly, like you might disappear, “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Squeak.” 

You let out the tears you’d been holding back and clung to him like your life depended on it. Sherlock’s chest wrenched again when he saw the tears falling from your eyes, he’d really have to get John to check on that, but right now he was busy thinking of ways to get at the bastard that had done that to you. 

He might never have had the chance to meet you because of him and that did not sit right with Sherlock at all. He did not tolerate anyone hurting the people he cared about, not John, not Mrs. Hudson, and certainly not you.


	13. Chapter 13

You stood in the kitchen of your flat, staring at the mug again. With some difficulty, you had convinced John to let you go so you could change out of your party outfit and now you were trying to decide if you felt well enough to eat something.

Or you had been until you saw the mug on the counter where you’d left it. 

You had on a comfortable pair of jeans and one of John’s hand-me-down jumpers from a while back, leaning against the wall opposite the counter as you tried to think for a minute. A weight had been lifted off your shoulders when you’d finally told John but it had dredged up old memories, not to mention you were still angry at Sherlock over the whole mug thing. 

You sunk down to the floor tucking your arms between your chest and your bent knees so you could cover your face with your hands and let out a long heavy sigh, turning your thoughts back to the food vs. no food debate. You sat there for a bit before there was a knock on your door and, not wanting to get up, you simply yelled, “It’s open! Come in!” 

Yelling was a decision you immediately regretted as a new wave of throbbing set in and you heard the door swing open and approaching footsteps. You expected it to be John so you paid little attention to the sound, leading you to be very surprised when they stopped and you looked up to find Sherlock staring down at you. 

You frowned at him with narrowed eyes, “What do you want?” 

He looked almost hesitant, his mouth slightly open as his eyes flicked over your position and then to the mug on the counter. You groaned, knowing that he was reading you again, and pressed your hands over your face, “Sherlock I’m really not in the mood. It’s been a rough morning and my-“

 

“Your head hurts and you’re angry with me.” He finished and when you looked up, he was offering a hand. 

You frowned but took it anyways, “Was there a purpose for your visit or did you just come to state the obvious again?” 

As soon as you were on your feet, you pulled away from him and went to your living room, not waiting for his answer. He didn’t follow you, standing in the doorway as he watched you flop down in your chair and pull your legs up to you in an unwelcoming manner. He ignored your behavior and, after a moment of surveying your small kitchen, he scooped up the mug from the counter and went to sit on your couch. 

You had your cheek rested on your knees, watching him carefully with tired eyes, and you softly huffed, “What?” 

It was obvious to you that he wanted to ask you something and normally you would be patient with him but right now you just wanted him to leave. His eyes flicked between you and the space next to him on the couch and you rolled your eyes, unfolding yourself to go plop down next to him with the reasoning that it must be important if he was being this difficult.

Sherlock watched you carefully, you were able to see things about him that others had never been able to and he couldn’t help but wonder why that was the case, testing it’s extent as he communicated with you wordlessly in only the slightest gestures. 

It had taken him longer than normal to gather his thoughts after that morning, his mind plagued not only with anger but by the feeling that had somehow escaped the confines of the walls he’d built for it. When he’d finally reigned everything in he came to a single question that was more pressing to him than any of the others.

He looked at the mug in his hands, knowing that you would follow his gaze, “Why does this mean so much to you?” 

You tilted your head at him, “It’s big enough for a good sized cup of tea, the pattern feels good beneath my fingers, and the blue is calming. It’s always been a favorite.” 

He lifted his eyes to look at you and you could see that wasn’t the answer he was looking for so you sighed and tried again, “That mug is the only thing I ever made on the wheel that I liked, I’m shit at the wheel, and it is the only ceramic piece I’ve ever kept. I guess you could say I’m proud of it and I wanted it to be taken care of properly.” 

You looked at him, that still wasn’t the right answer, so you reached over and took it from him as you gave the one you’d been avoiding, tracing the swirls with your thumb, “This was my hope. You may not understand it but this mug saved my life so many times. I would feel so broken and lost, wanting to just end it all to make the hurt go away, and then I’d open the cabinet and there it was. I watched plates and mugs and bowls and cups shatter to against the floor or wall in anger so many times but never this one. For some reason this one always managed to escape that fate, this one fragile mug defied all odds and continued on in the cabinet time after time. In my mind, if this one delicate thing could survive in the chaos then so could I.” 

You raised your eyes to look at him and found him frowning as he stared off in the direction of your small oval coffee table, you’d given him the answer he wanted but he didn’t look particularly pleased. You set the mug down on the table in front of you, moving to get up and let him think when his hand caught your wrist. You turned to look at him. 

He didn’t look up but he’d adjusted his gaze to stare at the mug, “Offering this mug to us, to me, was about more than replacing the one you broke, wasn’t it?” 

You sighed and sat back down, your anger at him fading away as you gathered that he hadn’t really meant to come off the way he had, “Yes, Sherlock. It means a lot to me and I wanted you to have it as a way of thanking you for all you’ve done for me since I’ve been here.” 

He pursed his lips, “I haven’t-“ 

“Yes, you have. Even if you don’t realize it or it wasn’t exactly your intention, you have.” 

It was quiet for a bit so you got up to let him think and this time he didn’t stop you. You could feel his eyes on you as you walked toward the kitchen and you gave your hips an extra swish just to mess with him, it was so very fun to mess with him when you could. 

And mess with him it did, he was already trying to fight off the feeling in his mind again and that little swish caused his heart rate to jump and his breath to hitch slightly. Now he was sure he was sick, there was no other explanation… and yet no illness he could think of fit the symptoms he was having. 

His mind briefly entertained the idea that maybe there was some other way to explain it and what it came up with made his eyes narrow. No. It couldn’t be that. He wasn’t capable of that. No, he had to be sick. That’s what was causing this and perhaps even the feeling in his mind. Yes, that was it. 

He was sick and it was messing with both his body and his mind. 

Sherlock had just come to this conclusion when you came back from the kitchen with two mugs and when you saw him, the grin on your face changed to a concerned frown, “Are you feeling alright Sherlock? You look rather pale.” 

Before he could answer, you set down the mugs and leaned to look at him as you pressed a hand against his forehead and his heart rate fluttered again, if you could see it then surely he was sick. 

His eyes caught yours and despite the worry, he saw there, you gave him a small reassuring smile, “You’re a little warm, Sherly. You should get some rest before it gets any worse.” 

He frowned at your nickname for him but made no attempt to correct you and you removed your hand from him to go back into the kitchen, rummaging around for a minute before coming back to hand him a glass of water and two pills, “Take these and drink your tea.” 

He quirked an eyebrow at you and you rolled your eyes, “Don’t give me that look. Just because I don’t take pills doesn’t mean I’m not prepared. My brother is a doctor after all. Now take them please.” 

He shook his head and slumped back like a difficult child and you sighed, “Fine. At least go upstairs and rest a bit then.” He looked like he was going to refuse and you quickly added, “Don’t make me tell, John. You know as well as I do how he gets.” 

Sherlock thought this over, he was going to need to inform John should this continue but right now he felt well enough, good even. His chest felt warm and slightly tingly like it often did when he got a worthy case and his heart rate had dropped back to a reasonable speed. Not to mention John was particularly annoying when he felt the need to be doctorly. 

He looked up and, though you were still obviously concerned, there was a glimmer of hope in your eyes. When he nodded and stood, you offered him a relieved grin, “Thank you, Sherlock.” 

His eyes flicked between you and the mug and you giggled, picking it up as you pushed him towards the door, “Go on. Out you go.”

He turned when he was in the doorway and you pressed the mug into his hands before bouncing up to kiss his cheek, “You are forgiven, Sherlock.” 

Before he could respond, you had closed the door in his face, trusting that he could and would get up to his own flat and get some rest without your supervision. 

Sherlock stood there for a moment looking down at the mug, the feel of the pressure from your lips on his cheek lingering on his skin. He felt weightless, that was new, his heart was flipping over in his chest in a rather worrisome way, and his face felt hot. You must have been right when you said he looked ill, he reasoned before deciding to take your advice and climbing the stairs to go and rest a bit.


	14. Chapter 14

You had barely ushered out Sherlock when there was another knock on your door, you groaned shoving yourself from your place stretched out on the couch with a blanket. You still hadn’t figured out how the fireplace worked and being on the bottom floor the air in the flat was cold. 

You pulled your blanket around your shoulders and went to the door, letting it drag along behind you. You pulled it open and before you could even register who it was, John just sort of bounced past you. 

You sighed, grumbling, “Yes by all means. Come right in.” 

He took in your flat for a moment, you’d done a fantastic job but he’d expected nothing less from his brilliant little sister. Each room had a color scheme that suited its use and flowed nicely to the next and while none of your furniture actually matched it still all went together well. 

He turned to look at you, smile going to a frown, “How are you feeling?” 

Your head still hadn’t stopped throbbing and it seemed like you couldn’t get any peace so you pulled your blanket tighter around you as you growled, “Just peachy.” 

He chuckled and held up a bag you hadn’t noticed before, “I can fix that.” 

You gave him a grin, “Juice and oatmeal?” 

He nodded and you wiggled happily, that special blend of juice that John made and hearty oatmeal was the only way you’d ever been able to get over hangovers when you were younger and a bit wilder. 

He chuckled at your response and you followed him to the kitchen, sliding into one of the two mismatched chairs at the small round kitchen table and shrugging off the blanket, “Thank you, John. Somehow I always forget what it’s like the morning after.” 

He left the oats to boil on the stove and sat down in the chair next to you, chuckling softly as he saw your attire, “I can’t believe you still have that thing.” 

You giggled, snuggling into the front of your sweater, “It’s my favorite. Best gift you ever gave me.”

He grinned, “You are so easy to please you know that?” 

You gave him a comically serious look, “I just appreciate the little things. Mum used to say that I’d make some guy very happy because flowers could mean as much to me as diamonds.” 

John smiled softly at that memory before meeting your eyes again, “You know you can always come to me if you’re in trouble or need to talk right, Squeak?” 

You nodded, “I know, Johnny. I promise I’m good. Really. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it already.” 

He clasped his hands together in front of him, “I wish you had let me be there for you. I don’t like that you had to go through that alone.” 

You reached to take his hand in yours, “I wasn’t alone, John. I have good friends.”

He traced your fingers with his, “Still. I’m your big brother. I’m supposed to make sure stuff like that doesn’t happen to you. I should have been able to tell something was wrong.” 

You pulled your hand away, your eyes finding the table extremely interesting, “You know that I can hide things better than most and I desperately didn’t want you to know. There was no way you could have known. I couldn’t have wished for a better brother, John, but you can’t protect me from everything.” 

You were quiet for a moment, “Please don’t blame yourself for something that was my fault. I should have told you… I was just afraid. At first of him and what he would do and then of what you would think-“ 

He took your hand again with a frown, “It wasn’t anyone’s fault but his, (F/n). I don’t think any less of you nor will I ever.” You felt another tension within you unravel and you let out a relieved sigh, offering him a soft smile. He returned it and then went to finish making your oatmeal.

John made sure you were settled in with your oatmeal and juice and made you promise to come get him if you didn’t feel better in a few hours before making his way upstairs. 

He threw his jacket over his chair and then went to the table to write up his blog for the day, ignoring Sherlock on the couch as had become a habit. It wasn’t until Sherlock dramatically groaned, “Johhhnnn. I think I’m sick,” that he looked up.

Sherlock didn’t actually look sick at all, he was lying on his stomach on the couch with a forlorn look on his face, his cheek pressed against the cushions and his arm hanging off the edge with the mug still in his hand. John rolled his eyes, “You aren’t sick, Sherlock. You’re probably just bored or something. Why don’t you call Lestrade and see if he has anything for you?” 

The man sat up to glare at him, “Don’t be an idiot. I’m not bored. Bored I can handle. This is something else entirely.” 

John didn’t have to put up with this, getting up to go to his room, “Aaand you’re on your own.” 

“John,” Sherlock whined to no avail. 

“No shooting the wall.” He added over his shoulder as he left the room. 

“JOHN.” 

When it was obvious John had no intention of coming back to help him, he flopped back into the couch to sulk, stroking the swirls of the mug absent-mindedly. He got up after a minute to trudge into the kitchen to make some tea, pouring it into the new mug- his new mug. 

He had no intention of sharing it with John what so ever. 

He took it back to his chair, setting it carefully on the end table next to him, and pulled his violin into his lap. He needed to think over his options since John was unwilling to help him and this was the best way he knew how. He pulled the bow across the strings and before he knew it his thoughts had turned to you and the music turned sweet and almost mournful. 

John had a date, as usual, and this was how he found Sherlock when he emerged from his room. He paused for a moment to watch him and listen, it wasn’t one of the tunes he normally played and the notes seemed to soar from the instrument in a way he hadn’t heard from Sherlock before. His face seemed troubled yet oddly peaceful and John wondered for a moment if he really was sick. 

His brow furrowed when he saw the mug, he hadn’t noticed it in Sherlock’s hand before, and he could only guess how it had gotten here. He went to pick it up and as his hand reached for it, the violin screeched. 

He looked up to find Sherlock glaring at him in a way that said touch-it-and-you’ll-lose-a-hand and John narrowed his eyes at him, “What’s with you? A day ago you didn’t even want it. How’d you get it from her anyway? I know you didn’t apologize.” 

He had a thought and frowned at the man, “Sherlock, if you stole it I will make you go down there and return it immediately.” 

Sherlock flatly offered, “She gave it to me,” before continuing with his violin. 

John wasn’t done, continuing in a sarcastic tone, “She gave it to you? Just like that? I suppose she told you all is forgiven as well.” 

“Yes, actually,” Sherlock stated, pausing the music only for a moment. 

John watched him suspiciously for a moment and then decided he didn’t have time for this, grabbing his coat. He would ask you on his way out. 

Your door was open and John wrapped his knuckles on its frame as he called your name, “(F/n)?” 

You came into view from the corner of the living room closest to him, the corner he knew held your easel, with a big grin and a few smudges of paint on your face, “Isn’t Sherlock’s playing just wonderful?” 

He fought the urge to roll his eyes at your comment and then realized you had your door open so you could hear the music coming from upstairs, “Don’t tell him that. His head is swollen enough as it is.” 

You giggled, “What’s up, Johnny? Don’t you have a date?” 

He didn’t ask how you knew that or protest the fact you’d pulled him into your flat and then disappeared into your bedroom, answering, “Yes I do actually. I came to ask if you gave Sherlock your mug.”

You came back in with a comb and began to pull it through his hair as you answered, “I did. He came to talk to me while you were at the store and I figured that was as close to an apology as I would ever get.” 

You fixed the collar of his shirt and then tugged at the front of his jacket, “There. Perfect.” 

He just looked at you for a moment and then pursed his lips, “You really did give it to him and forgive him?” 

You rolled your eyes and nodded, “Yes, John. Now shoo. You don’t want to keep your date waiting.” 

He caught a glimpse of the painting you were working on as he left, a laughing Queen’s guard, and then turned to offer a quick thank you before going off to meet his date. 

You returned to your work, pulling a carmine-coated brush across the smooth white surface. Somewhere inside of you, you knew that this canvas wasn’t going to end up like all the others, there was something about listening to Sherlock play while you painted that quelled that awful grey that always took over. You were going to give this once grey canvas and all the others a new life, one that reflected your own.


	15. Chapter 15

When Sherlock stopped playing a short while later you had to force yourself to set your brush down as the urge to grey-out the work you’d just done threatened to take over. You quickly washed your brushes and cleaned up before happily bouncing up the stairs and through the door to the boys’ flat. 

 

You spied Sherlock laying face down on the couch with a desolate and despondent look on his face, which you ignored, chalking it up to the fact that you had no case. 

“Come on. We’re going out.” You chirped throwing his jacket at him. 

He sat up, eyeing you curiously, “Why?” 

You grinned, grabbing his hands to pull him to his feet, “Why the hell not? John is out, the night is young, and London has so much to offer. Besides it’s better than whatever sulking you were doing before I came up.” 

While that was true, he didn’t feel like going out, he was sick after all and his symptoms had started acting up as soon as you walked through the door. He went to tell you no but when he finally turned to look at you, you had the biggest puppy dog eyes flecked with hints of mischief and your lower lip was puffed out in a slight pout. 

He meant to say no, he really did, but what actually came out of his mouth was, “Alright.” 

You squealed as you broke into a large grin and gave a little twirl and Sherlock couldn’t help but give a small smile at your reaction. A warmth bubbled up in his chest that he knew to be happiness and he tilted his head, was he happy because you were happy? It was possible but the feeling seemed to quell the symptoms of his sickness and he wondered if maybe that meant that whatever was wrong with him was emotionally based.

 

He didn’t have time to think it over as you had already bounded out the door and were calling to him from the bottom of the stairs, “Come on, Sherlock!” 

He rushed to catch up with you as he wondered if this was how John felt a lot of the time and when he reached the bottom you grabbed his hand to tug him out to the street. You seemed to think for a moment and then a devious smile played across your lips as you quickly hailed a cab. 

Sherlock was quietly observing you during the cab ride but you didn’t seem to notice, as you looked out the window to watch everything rush by. You were still smiling over whatever idea you’d come up with for the night and your cheeks and nose were pink from the cold night air. The corner of his mouth turned up when he noticed that you had paint behind your ear again, a sort of indigo blue this time, and he decided to tell you later when it would be beneficial for him.   
He had to jog to keep up with you again when the cab pulled to a stop and, after paying, you took off at a brisk pace. He could see now what your intentions were as you stopped to look up at the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral and he quirked an eyebrow at you to which you responded with a grin. 

You found a side entrance door and pulled out a small lock picking kit with a frustrated sigh, dropping to your knees to begin working at it. He could tell that though you would eventually get it open, your lock picking skills were limited and decided to teach you properly later. You had just uttered a soft curse in French when Sherlock stopped your hand and gestured for you to take his place as lookout. You thanked him wordlessly and then turned to scan the street until, just a few minutes later, Sherlock grabbed you and pulled you into the building with him. 

Neither of you said anything, communicating with only slight gestures and expressions, as you quickly found the stairs and ascended to the top level of the dome. You huffed, leaning against the heavy metal railing to look out at twinkling lights of London with an expression of awe. Sherlock joined you and you looked over at him with a grin, “Worth it.” 

He chuckled, “Your lock picking needs work.” 

You sighed, “I know. I never actually learned properly. More like trial and error.” 

He nodded and then watched as you wandered around the small platform’s circumference a couple of times and then stopped to pull out your sketchbook, using the railing as a hard surface to balance it on as you sketched, “Few people have seen this- London at night from the cathedral. It’s beautiful.” 

He’d never actually thought about it before but standing here with you now he had to agree, there was something about the lights of London at night that was intriguing. Or at least that’s what he decided it was. The only other option was that he looked at it differently now because he was here with you and that was absurd. 

You slipped your sketchbook away and came to lean on the railing next to him, pressing your shoulder to his, and his heart skipped a beat. He turned to look at you, you were looking out on the city with a small content smile, your hair rustling slightly in the breeze, and his heart swelled up when you turned to give him a small, secretive grin, happiness lighting up your eyes. 

You giggled, “You ok, Sherly?” 

He shook his head to try and clear his thoughts, ignoring your silly nickname for him again, “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

You looked back at the city, “You looked a little dazed is all.” 

His gaze joined yours and your head suddenly tilted, “We should go.” 

No sooner had you said it he heard the faint ring of sirens fill the air from somewhere off in the distance. You offered him a wicked grin and the two of you stumbled down the many stairs, out the door, and over to a neighboring alleyway just as the cop cars pulled up. You both giggled as you saw a distraught looking Lestrade barking orders to his team and then you grabbed Sherlock’s hand and tugged him past and away from the group of officers at brisk but not suspicious pace. 

Lestrade only just barely caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s familiar dark locks and the edge of his coat as you rounded the corner and let out a heavy sigh, he should have known that man would have something to do with this. 

You let go of Sherlock’s hand once you were out of sight and he felt empty for a moment but it was soon filled with warmth rising in his chest as you giggled and tossed a smile in his direction.

“Do you think Lestrade will call you when they figure out nothing was taken?” you asked falling into step next to him. 

“It’s a possibility.” He replied with a small smirk. 

You snorted at the idea of Sherlock having to investigate a crime that you and he committed and then gave a small yawn. Sherlock’s lips twitched as a smile threatened to appear, “I think this was quite enough adventure for tonight.” 

You chuckled and stepped to the curb to hail a cab, “Agreed. We best get home before John finds us missing and begins to assume things.” 

Sherlock gave a soft smile as he climbed into the cab after you, “You Watsons and your worries over people’s assumptions. It’s pointless really.” 

You poked his side, “To you maybe. You don’t care what people think.” 

“That is because anyone with sufficient intelligence knows better and everyone else doesn’t matter.” 

You smiled and glanced out the window, spending the rest of the cab ride in a comfortable silence. 

Once at the flat, he paused at your door to say goodnight and as you turned to look at him, he offered, “You have paint behind your ear again.” 

You blinked confusedly for a second at his sudden observation as he rolled his eyes and reached forward to rub it off with his thumb. He didn’t expect the blush that suddenly colored your cheeks as his fingers made contact with your skin and his eyes quickly flicked over you. 

Colored cheeks. Slightly dilated pupils. Unconscious biting of the lower lip. He smirked. You liked him. His heart soared as its rate jumped up and he cursed this sickness. It was getting in the way of his thinking of ways to use this to his advantage in the future. 

The moment didn’t last long as you got a very unsure look on your face and quickly pulled away to offer a stiff, “Thanks. Good night, Sherlock,” before escaping into your flat and quickly shutting the door behind you. 

He frowned as he realized your past would likely get in the way of any plans he had and was reminded of the anger he felt earlier over the fact that you’d been harmed. He was going to have to do something about that.


	16. Chapter 16

You laid on the floor of your flat rolled up like a burrito in the comforter from your bed, hugging your favorite roll pillow to your chest as you wallowed. You could not be falling for John’s flatmate. That was unacceptable. 

You were supposed to be taking a break from men, the last thing you needed was some awkward relationship with the high functioning sociopath upstairs. You rolled so you were on your stomach pushing the pillow under your chin as you carefully considered your options. He seemed nice enough, certainly interesting, but so had your bastard ex-boyfriend when you first met him. You shivered slightly at the thought. 

Your brain was screaming at you, “He could hurt you and then where will you be? Yeah, right back where you started, you idiot.” 

Underneath that, your heart murmured, “Sherlock wouldn’t intentionally hurt you, but does he even know how to love?”

You growled and shoved your face into the pillow, it had been a week since you had broken into St. Paul’s Cathedral and you had spent a good portion of that time lying on the floor and struggling with this same debate. Every time you tried to do something else to take your mind off it or just to not feel like a complete waste of space it ended badly. For example, making tea had turned into nearly burning down the flat and any attempts at drawing only resulted in a new set of mini Sherlocks to stare at you and judge your thoughts. 

You needed to do something, anything, to either, think this through or get your mind off of it entirely. Coming to a decision, you bounced up from the floor, kicking your blanket into a small mound near the wall, and then went to leave the flat. You were nearly out the door when you thought to let someone know you were going out as John had been extra fretful since he’d found out you’d almost died. 

Mrs. Hudson wasn’t home, you could see that just by looking at her door, but the door to apartment B was open so you called, “I’m going for a quick walk in the park. I’ll be back in an hour.” 

There was no response, which meant John was out and Sherlock was in his mind palace again; honestly it had never been easier to avoid someone than it was with Sherlock. You doubted he even noticed you hadn’t been around the past few days. You had a feeling he heard you and, if he didn’t, it hardly mattered, you planned to be home long before John would be back.

You made your way over and walked along the boating lake in Regent’s Park, tempted momentarily to visit Queen Mary’s Garden before continuing to lazily stroll along the water’s edge. Your brain did what you wanted it to- it sought out things that were interesting enough for a distraction. You almost stalked people who caught your eye with an innocent sense of curiosity, picking another when you lost interest. 

This type of observation was something you often did when you needed inspiration for your art and it was easy to lose yourself in it completely- watching first a lady with a posh looking hat- then a man who you couldn’t help but think looked like Gandalf with a long beard at a gnarled walking stick- then a group of Lolita looking Japanese tourists in frills and pastels. It went on like this for some time before you suddenly looked up at the sky and found the colors of dusk setting in. 

You sighed, you’d been out longer than you’d intended and it was definitely time to get home before John had kittens over your absence but you sure felt a hell of a lot better than when you’d started. That is until you looked at your surroundings and realized you had no idea where you were. 

You cursed yourself. You had been so focused on your ‘prey’ that you hadn’t noticed you were going further and further from home and because you had been so focused you couldn’t remember how you got here. This had never been a problem for you before- you knew Paris like the back of your hand and, even in new places, you had a good enough memory to backtrack to where you started.

Unfortunately, your knowledge of London was limited to the immediate areas around the flat and those few places you’d had a chance to explore since moving here, it was a rather large place after all, and, since you had paid your surroundings no mind until now, you had no way to backtrack. You reached for your phone and then facepalmed when you realized you’d left it and anything else useful back at the flat; you’d needed to get out and you were so sure it was just going to be for a bit that you hadn’t bothered to grab anything. 

“Just bloody fantastic.” You swore under your breath. 

You had no idea where you were, it looked to be one of the rougher boroughs and there was certainly no one friendly around, with no phone and no money and it was rapidly getting dark. 

~~~~Back at the Flat~~~~

John came home from his errands in the late evening, pausing to knock on your door to see if you wanted to join them upstairs for Chinese takeaway. When you didn’t answer he frowned and ascended the stairs, walking into the flat to ask, “Did (F/n) say she was going out, Sherlock?” 

The man didn’t answer so John used a tactic he’d recently discovered was very effective to get his attention- he reached for Sherlock’s mug. 

A hand shot out to stop him from touching it and John smirked as he looked up to find Sherlock glaring at him. He didn’t know what it was about that mug but Sherlock refused to let him touch it, even washing it on his own and then placing it on the highest cabinet shelf where he knew John couldn’t reach it. 

He retracted his hand and repeated his question, “Did (F/n) tell you she was going out?” 

Sherlock raised an annoyed eyebrow, “She went for a walk.” 

John frowned, looking out the window, “At this hour? It’s nearly dark.” 

Sherlock shot up, turning to look out the window with a frown, and then bolted out the door before John could process what was going on. He strode down the street at almost a jog, you’d left at mid-day you should have been back long before now. He ran through a number of theories in his head. 

You weren’t helpless, that had been apparent from day one with the incident on the train, so it was unlikely that you’d gotten yourself into that kind of trouble. He thought it over for a moment, you were highly observant and both easily distracted and highly focused. You could be taking in a very thorough and detailed amount of information about something but miss what was right in front of you, rather like when you ran into John at the Yard. That was something you and he had in common and he knew all to well that it sometimes could end unfavorably. 

The most likely possibility was that you had wandered off, distracted by something, and now didn’t know how to get home. He was quick to go to the park, deducing things as he went to follow the same path you had and he shortly had a realization as to where you might have ended up.


	17. Chapter 17

You were sitting on a bench, mentally cursing yourself as the cold night air cut through your light t-shirt. It had been perfect attire for the pleasantly sunny day but was hardly appropriate for the night’s decreased temperatures. You wrapped your arms around yourself in a hug as you shivered and stared at the road in front of you. 

You’d already walked in circles a few times in an attempt to recognize something or determine at least what direction you should walk to get closer to home but always ended up back at this bench, and after a particularly close encounter in one of the neighboring alleyways, you decided to stay here as it was likely safer than wandering around at night. There weren’t exactly very many options aside from that. 

You let out a shaky sigh, feeling helpless and stupid for getting yourself into this situation and not being able to get yourself out. John probably hadn’t even noticed you were missing as it was possible Sherlock hadn’t even heard you leave and if he had he may not have notified John when he returned home. How long did you have to be missing for someone to notice you wondered and even then how would they find you? 

No, you weren’t going to be able to depend on them, you were going to have to figure this out on your own… but how? It was dark, you were cold and tired, and you were fairly certain that there were people lurking in the shadows just waiting for you to let your guard down. Fear washed over you at that thought. 

 

You buried your face in your hands and let out a distraught sob when you heard a familiar voice, “(F/n)?” 

You jumped, hoping your mind wasn’t playing tricks on you as you searched for its source, your eyes landing on none other than your favorite consulting detective, “Sherlock? What are you doing here?” 

He quirked an eyebrow at you, taking a few steps closer to you, “I could ask you the same thing.” 

You felt relief flood your senses as you all but launched yourself at him, throwing your arms around him as a sob escaped your throat, “I just got so terribly lost.” 

He was taken aback by the sudden physical contact but only for a moment, winding his arms around you hesitantly as you sobbed into his shirt, his mind trying to process what he should do in this situation. You were quite obviously scared, shaken, exhausted, and more than a little cold. The last two he could fix by getting you home but he doubted, with the state you were in at the moment, that he could get you into a cab. He needed to soothe you first. 

There was little if any information in his hard drive on this so he did the only thing he could think of, he stopped thinking and let instinct take over. Once he let that happen, he was enveloped with relief that you were all right, a twinge of anger over not having found you sooner, and a need to assure both himself and you that it was over. 

You should have been surprised when Sherlock’s grip on you tightened and his nose buried itself in your hair so he could whisper soothing phrases into it, “It’s alright (F/n)… You’re safe… Hush,” but you were too upset to notice. 

It took a minute but his efforts were rewarded and you pulled away to wipe at your nose, offering in a tiny voice, “Sorry. I’m just so relieved to see you.” 

He went back to being himself, scolding, “Next time don’t wander about like an idiot. You are marginally more observant than most and it is a skill I expect you to use.” 

You nodded, too tired and relieved to let his cutting remark wound you, “Can we go home now?” 

“I would have thought that obvious.” He replied in an annoyed tone, hailing a cab and then pulling you into it. 

His subconscious refused to let him lose contact with you, his hand resting reassuringly on your thigh, and you made no attempt to remove him. He was quick to notice, looking down at his hand curiously as if it had in some way betrayed him while you stared off into space, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. 

He turned to look out the window with a frown as that niggling feeling in his mind returned, when you murmured softly, “Thank you for coming to find me, Sherly.” 

His heart rate jumped at the soft sound of your voice and, catching his reflection in the window, he noted that his pupils were dilated. His mind started to race as it hit him like a train.

Increased heart rate. Dilated pupils. Subconscious need for physical contact. 

He frowned as he came to an ultimate conclusion: he fancied you. It was suddenly clear as day what had been wrong with him all this time and he wondered if it was that he had missed it or if he had just not wanted to believe it. He mentally sighed, it didn’t really matter in the end, he could only ask himself ‘What now?’


	18. Chapter 18

John nearly squashed you with a tackle hug when you and Sherlock came through the door and you returned it with just as much fervor, “I’m sorry I made you worry, Johnny.” 

Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen, while John looked you over for any injuries, “What in the world happened, Squeak?” 

You rubbed the back of your neck as you sheepishly admitted, “It would seem I got a little lost…”

Sherlock’s voice rang out from the kitchen, “A little? That’s the understatement of the year. I found her all the way over in Hackney.” 

John startled, “How did you manage that, (F/n)?” 

You shrugged, “I’m not entirely sure. One minute I was following a guy with the most peculiar little hat and the next, it’s getting dark and I have no idea where I am.” 

John set into a small rant about all the bad things that could have possibly happened to you and Sherlock came out of the kitchen with a mug of tea, which he surprisingly offered to you. 

You quirked an eyebrow at him, “You never make me tea.” 

 

“I just did. Don’t you want it?” He looked annoyed that you had questioned his actions but you knew there had to be some sort of motive behind this ‘random’ act of kindness. 

Sherlock was, in fact, trying to be kind. His realization in the cab was weighing heavily on him and he wasn’t entirely sure if he should act on it. While it could be a very interesting study on how his thoughts are affected by such a trivial emotion as love, he didn’t want it to distract from his work, and to an extent, more than he was willing to admit to himself, he didn’t want to hurt you.

On the other hand, the feelings didn’t seem like they would be going away anytime soon and he found himself with a sort of longing to be nearer to you, to hear your laugh, to see you smile. He wondered if maybe having you closer to him might be an asset in the long run. You were observant and almost always willing to indulge him, not to mention that you seemed to be able to read him to some extent. As a pair, you could likely more efficiently solve cases.

For him tea was a middle ground, he was showing you a kindness he wouldn’t normally but it could at the same time be brushed off as some random anomaly in his behavior.

Taking it from him, you examined him suspiciously with narrowed eyes and cautiously sniffed your tea, looking into the mug, before deciding to risk it because you really wanted tea. It had been a very emotionally taxing few hours and tea always had a way of soothing your frazzled nerves- a fact that Sherlock no doubt knew. 

He watched you almost expectantly until you took a sip, let out a soft content sigh, and took your cup to John’s chair, missing the small triumphant smile that crossed his face. It was fascinating to him that such a small action from you could cause happiness over having pleased you to bubble up in his chest like it rarely did.

Sherlock flopped down in his chair and John had realized you weren’t listening and disappeared into the kitchen. He came back in with a mug of tea for you, stating, “Squeak, you really do have to be more care-“ 

He stopped when he noticed you already had tea and warily asked, “(F/n), where did you get that tea?” 

Cradling the cup in both hands as you took another sip, you responded, “Sherlock, made it for me.” 

John looked from Sherlock to you slowly repeating, “Sherlock made you tea…” 

You looked up at him with an arched eyebrow, “That is what I just said, John.” 

He stepped over and pressed a hand to your forehead, “And you drank it? How are you feeling? Did it taste funny?” 

You batted his hand away, “It tastes like tea, John. What is with you?”

Sherlock offered, “He thinks I’ve put something in it as an experiment. A scenario you already considered when you accepted it from me.” 

You chuckled, “Yes, I concluded that you hadn’t because John would have been a much better test subject than me as he’s less likely to question your actions until it’s far too late.” 

John gaped at the two of you unsure if he should be mad at both of you or intrigued by the friendship that seemed to be developing between you two. Sherlock decided for him, throwing a smirk in your direction before scooping up his violin to play a smooth classical tune. You yawned, exhausted both emotionally and physically from the day’s events, and John bent to press a kiss to your temple before going to bed to avoid witnessing anything even more confusing.

You sat and just watched Sherlock play for a bit, he looked so beautiful with his eyes closed and his lips softly parted, his fingers gracefully arching to press down on the strings as the bow pulled across them. You sighed, maybe you should just draw him like your mind was constantly telling you to do. It seemed as if he was created just to be drawn and you doubted you’d ever run out of new ways to capture his image. Maybe that’s what he was to you- your muse. 

You lost yourself in your thoughts and missed when Sherlock pulled himself from his own thoughts and noticed you were still there, changing the music to a soft lullaby as he gave a small fond smile. Your eyelids started to droop as the music soothed your mind and before long you let sleep take over entirely, curling up in the chair. 

Sherlock watched to slow rise and fall of your breathing for a moment and came to a decision. He wanted to know more about the feelings that could so easily render his mind, his genius mind, utterly useless. It was important to know his weaknesses after all.


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock woke up on the couch the next morning, having slipped off into a deep sleep after watching you for a bit longer, with a blanket tucked gently over him and you nowhere to be found. He sighed, it was early enough that John still wasn’t up which meant your habit of rising with the sun was stronger than he’d originally thought. 

Around noon, you bounced through the doorway to their flat with a wide grin on your face, “Your brother called.”

Sherlock sat up from his place on the couch with a smirk as he quirked a curious eyebrow at you and you pulled your lips into your mouth, holding your breath as you waited for him to ask. John beat him to it, looking up from his computer, “What did you tell him?” 

You were blasé as you answered, “Oh you know this and that about the last case and Sherlock being a twat.” 

Sherlock looked disappointed at how mundane your report had been and you grinned wickedly, “I may have also told him something along the lines of, ‘Sherlock dissected a dead seven-foot shark in the living room and found a muscle that when poked made it bite an unsuspecting John,’ and I would say I was very convincing.” 

You and Sherlock stared at each other for a minute and then all three of you dissolved into a small fit of giggles. You plopped down on the couch next to him just as a text announced itself on Sherlock’s phone – “A shark, Sherlock? Why? I do hope you apologized to John. – MH” 

 

Sherlock’s response was simple- “For science. John understands.- SH” 

You laughed, bouncing up to wiggle, “Oh I can just see his face now. It’s brilliant.” 

Sherlock chuckled at your enthusiasm and John just grinned, shaking his head. You clapped your hands once, “Well I just came to tell you that and to let you know that I’m going over to the Tate Britain for the afternoon, they have these lovely architectural sketches right now and their Turner collection is superb.” 

John looked you over, “Take a scarf. Do you have your mobile?” 

You pulled it from your pocket with a nod, holding it up before returning it to its place, “It’s not cold enough for a scarf Johnny.” 

He sighed, “Just take one, Squeak. You know how you are. You could be there until late and by then it’ll be cold.” 

You harrumphed, “Fine but only because I have one that goes with this outfit perfectly and not because you are right.” 

He rolled his eyes and went back to typing as you gave him a kiss on the cheek and then bounced on to the couch next to Sherlock on your knees, “You could come with me, Sherly.” 

He didn’t even turn to look at you, still fiddling with his phone, “Boring.” 

You chuckled and flicked his ear, “You and John both. No appreciation for the finer side of history.” 

You sighed, “Alright then. Adieu,” and pressed a kiss to his cheek in the same fashion you had with John and then waltzed out the door. 

Sherlock went a slight shade of petal pink as he marveled at his body’s reaction to the simple touch of your lips against his cheek. It was worse than before. He felt not only weightless but like he was soaring above the earth, like he was high in the best way, his heart racing faster than he thought possible.

John was oblivious to all this, missing the slight coloring of his friend’s cheeks, and was attempting to talk to him. Getting no response, he raised his eyes from his writing to see that Sherlock was sitting with his eyes closed, obviously in thought, and went to click his fingers by his ear to bring him out of it. 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, annoyed at the interruption to his high, “What?” 

John smirked, “Just wondering if you wanted tea, Sherly.”

Sherlock glared at his friend, “Do not call me that.” 

John chuckled, “If you dislike it so much then why do you allow her to use it.” 

“That’s different, Johnny.” He responded, quirking a daring eyebrow at him. 

John scrunched up his face in displeasure at your nickname for him coming out of Sherlock’s mouth, “Right. I see your point.” 

“Of course you do. Now go make me tea.” 

“What? Go make it yourself, you lazy git.” 

“You offered.” 

John frowned, he had in fact offered in his taunting, “Fine.” 

He was in the kitchen doorway when Sherlock added, “Use the blue mug.” 

John stopped to raise an eyebrow at him, “I’m allowed to touch it now?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Since you so kindly offered to make me tea, I have decided to allow you to touch it just this once. If it’s too much responsibility-“

“No. I can handle it.” John answered through gritted teeth.

“Good. Top Shelf. Hurry up.”

John gaped at him, “It’s on the top shelf. You put it there for the very reason that I can’t reach it.” 

Sherlock was unphased, “So stand on a chair. Really, John, you have been able to get it all along. If only you’d just used your brain and stopped acting like an idiot.” 

John grumbled, “Bloody chair. Make me tea, John. You’re an idiot, John. Of course, you could have used the chair,” pulling a chair to stand on to retrieve the mug and make Sherlock the tea he’d dumbly offered in his teasing.


	20. Chapter 20

You called up the stairs when you got back to let them know you were home and then went to your flat to paint, feeling inspired by your little outing enough to try your hand at it again. It was very late afternoon, the sun hanging low in the sky to cast long shadows, when Sherlock flung open the door to your apartment and before he could get more than a step in you were in front of him, “Don’t you knock?”

He raised an eyebrow, “You don’t” 

You considered this, “Fair enough. What do you need?” 

He opened his mouth to answer but closed it again to take in your appearance before narrowing his eyes, “What’s wrong?” 

You looked up at him, confused, “Well aside from you bursting into my flat uninvited and unexplained, nothing.” 

“No. Something’s wrong I can tell.” 

You crossed your arms, “Nothing is wrong, Sherlock. Now would you care to explain-“ 

“Your mouth is turned ever so slightly down at the corners, you’ve been running your fingers through the front of your hair repeatedly, likely in frustration, and your painting has gotten sloppy as, instead of a just a few smudges, you have paint almost flung on your skin. Grey on top of a number of other colors. It’s obvious something is wrong. Just tell me.” 

You shrugged, “I had an artistic moment okay. That’s all. It happens.” 

Sherlock accepted this, your habits as an artist were still a little foreign to him, and nodded, grabbing your arm to pull you into the hall, “Lestrade has summoned me. John’s on a date. Let’s go.” 

You tugged your arm away, “I can’t go like this. Let me clean some of the paint off of-“   
“No time.” Sherlock countered grabbing your arm again. 

He pulled you toward him and the door and you protested, “At least let me put my brush in water Sherlock. If the paint dries on it, it’ll be ruined.” 

He shook his head, “You can buy another later.” 

You forcefully tugged yourself out of his grasp with a harsh glare, “Don’t insult me by belittling the importance of the tools of my trade, Sherlock. Brushes are expensive and I don’t have the means to replace it right now. It will only take a moment.” 

He was surprised by your anger, leaning away slightly to allow you to do as you asked as he thought over your words. He hadn’t realized your brushes were probably as important to you as his case files were to him, not to mention the concern with your finances that had suddenly come up. 

You didn’t seem to be struggling but now that he thought about it you had no means of income besides your work and you hadn’t mentioned selling anything to him and John as you likely would have if such a thing happened. You had also given him all of what Mycroft gave you so he could pay the rent. He had thought nothing of it at the time but now… he wondered if you would have trouble paying your own rent.

You locked the door to your flat and then grabbed his hand to pull him to the door with a grin, “Well come on then. Don’t rush me and then stand about.” 

He tightened his hand around yours and took the lead, calling a cab and then pulling you into it, keeping your hand in his during the ride to the Yard. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that you had turned pink as you stared at his hand in yours but did not attempt to remove yours from his, peering at him curiously from behind a section of hair that had fallen in your face. 

He turned his focus to his own reaction, noting the quickened heart rate as he relished the feel of his hand in yours, the smooth feel of your palm, and the soft skin of your fingers interrupted every so often with a rough smear of paint. Your hand was so small in his, he’d never noticed it before, but at the same time, it felt like they fit together perfectly. 

He was taken away from his observations when the cab arrived at the Yard and you used the fact that he hadn’t let you go to your advantage, pulling him out of the cab and to the door. He let go of you to open the door before placing his hand at the small of your back to usher you through it in front of him. 

Your face was fully red now as you examined him carefully in the elevator, you could excuse the hand holding as him being lost in thought but holding the door for you? That was something else entirely. He seemed indifferent, as if he hadn’t just done the things he had, and completely ignored your inquisitive gaze. As the doors pinged open and he strode out in front of you, expecting you to follow, so you decided to let it go. It was surely just a fluke.


	21. Chapter 21

Lestrade seemed surprised when the two of you walked through his door, “Where’s your usual Watson, Sherlock? And why is this one covered in paint?”

You let out an exasperated sigh as Sherlock offered a short explanation, “John’s out boring some girl on a pointless date and (F/n) is a painter by profession.”

“It’s more of a hobby,” you corrected, causing Sherlock to give you a surprised look, before adding, “He all but dragged me out of my flat, I didn’t have a chance to clean up properly.”

“I would say it’s much more than a hobby.” Sherlock countered, cutting off whatever Lestrade had been about to say as he examined you carefully for anything he may have missed that would have caused you to answer that way.

“Do we really have to discuss this now, Sherlock?” you sighed, shooting Lestrade an apologetic look.

“We do. Lestrade can wait.” 

“Hey!” 

“Why do you say that?”

Letting out a frustrated huff, you complied, “I haven’t painted anything in a little over two years, I can hardly give painter as my profession now can I?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at you, silently asking further questions, which you ignored, turning to look at Lestrade, “What can we do for you, Detective Inspector?”

“Well, I was hoping he could clear up-“ Lestrade began only to be interrupted by Sherlock, “You were painting before we left.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Sherlock. Let it go will you.” You growled, trying to keep your annoyance and frustration at bay.

“I will when you explain.” Sherlock insisted and you looked to Lestrade for help.

He just shrugged, “You might as well answer him so we can get on with it.”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, “Yes, I was painting before you came and dragged me here for something you now seem to have completely lost interest in but, like I told you before, I had an artistic moment. What is on that canvas is not worthy of being called a painting. Now out with it, Lestrade, before he comes up with something else and I end up doing something I’ll regret.”

Lestrade spilled his purpose before Sherlock could say anything else, “There was a break-in at St. Paul’s Cathedral and Sherlock was seen leaving the scene just after we showed up. So he-“

“When?” you interjected insistently, struggling to not let annoyance seep into your voice.

“Nine days ago at around quarter past nine.”

You rolled your eyes convincingly, “Impossible. Sherlock was with me all night. John designated me babysitter so he didn’t blow up the apartment with his latest experiment. Now my favorite shirt is ruined.”

Lestrade eyed you suspiciously, “But I-“

“Do you really want me to go into detail of what happened that night? I can assure you it isn’t-”

“No. No, I believe you.” Lestrade interrupted, thinking better of it as he assured himself he must have just seen someone who looked like Sherlock.

“Good. Now if that’s all, I’d very much like to get home.”

“Yes, that’s it. It was nice to see you again, Miss Watson. Keep him out of trouble.”

You were already part of the way out his door, pulling Sherlock along behind you before he was finished, and called over your shoulder, “Good night, Lestrade.”

You tugged him into the elevator and then let him go as the doors slid shut, quietly fuming over the entire situation.

Sherlock, of course, didn’t know when to leave well enough alone and flatly stated, “You just lied to the police.”

You calmly stated, keeping your eyes trained on the doors, “No, I manipulated the truth. You were with me all night, John did tell me not to let you blow up anything, and my favorite shirt is, in fact, ruined. I just left out the bit that we weren’t at the flat and that I ruined my shirt with paint yesterday.”

He considered this brilliant little trick you had played while wondering why he had missed it in the first place and then looked over to where you were, “Why can’t you paint?”

You gritted your teeth, trying desperately not to snap at him, “It’s complicated, Sherlock. I’m not entirely sure myself.”

He could see he had hit a nerve with his question and, despite wanting to press you further to see your reaction, he fell silent. Again he found himself not wanting you to be cross with him, trying to think of a way to ease your temper, and quickly came to a solution.

He hesitated slightly and then took your hand up in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Your head snapped around to look up at him both seriously confused and entirely unamused but he gave you a small smile in that way that he had of just slightly pulling the sides of his lips up for a moment and then letting them fall again. You searched his face with furrowed brows, your mind racing as your thoughts all competed for attention, and found that there was something genuine in his expression.

You looked away, not accepting it but not rejecting it either, and wondered what Sherlock was up to and what this strange behavior was all about. You certainly couldn’t consider it a fluke anymore. Still, you couldn’t say that you didn’t enjoy how his hand dwarfed yours as his long fingers wrapped around it. 

Coming to a decision, you cautiously interlaced your fingers with his, keeping your expression blank as you accepted whatever this was. You could hardly call it a relationship, a fact that you were actually grateful for, as you weren’t ready for anything like that again, but still it was something… maybe just each of you understanding the other in a way that no one else did.


	22. Chapter 22

The moment was short as he disconnected himself from you when the elevator doors swished open, looking suddenly like he was troubled as he swooped forward and out to call a cab. You puffed out your cheeks for a second and then jogged to catch up to him. The cab ride was quiet, neither of you acknowledging the other’s presence, but when you got back to the flat Sherlock lingered in your doorway instead of going up the stairs to his own flat. You rolled your eyes, “Let me guess. John isn’t back yet and you want tea but you would rather not make it yourself.” 

He gave a slight smirk and you sighed, “Fine. Come in and I’ll make you some.”   
After pulling off your coat, you flung your bag in the direction of your chair on your way to the kitchen while Sherlock took in your flat more closely than he had the last time he was here, surveying the area with a curiosity he hadn’t afforded it before.

He turned to look at what really interested him- the large open space at the front corner of your apartment that held your easel. The area was covered by some paint-splattered drop cloths both on the walls and floor with your easel pushed back into the corner. He stepped into the space and flicked on the task lamp you’d set up to light your work, illuminating the canvas you claimed wasn’t a painting. 

The surface depicted an incredibly detailed, laughing Queen’s Guard that looked close to finished but it was marred by a flurry of grey brush strokes and a quarter of the canvas was greyed out by methodical looking strokes running from edge to edge. 

You left the kitchen and, upon seeing Sherlock’s location, were tempted to turn around and go back into it to avoid the conversation that was undoubtedly going to come about. Before you could decide whether to make your escape or not, his eyes found you, so you forced a grin and went to give him his tea.

He looked at the mug as if it were some foreign object, not receiving it from you when you extended your arm, and you sighed, “What is it now, Sherlock?”

He turned from you to look at the painting again and you visibly flinched when his elegant fingers reached out to touch its surface, which he noticed out of the corner of his eye, pulling his hand away quickly, “Why?”

You examined the floor, trying to formulate an answer to the question you knew he was asking, and when you finally came up with one, it slipped out softly of its own accord, “Because I can’t forget.”

You held the tea out to him again, hoping that he would just drop it, and for a moment it seemed he would as his hand pulled the mug from yours and he went to flop down on your couch in thought. You rubbed your temple in an attempt to quell the headache that was beginning to form there, you needed time to process the events of the day and to let go of all the frustration you were feeling.

You flopped down on the floor, pulling your roll pillow to your chest from where you’d kicked it the day before as you rolled to press your cheek against the cold wood paneling. Your mind accepted the offer of a chance to think and you walked your way through your curiosities and away from your frustrations.

Already feeling astronomically better, you were running through some theories on the reason for Sherlock’s strange behavior when his voice stopped you short, “What are you doing?” 

You furrowed your brow but didn’t move to look at him, “What does it look like I’m doing, genius?” 

“It looks like your lazing about on the floor. I need more tea.” 

You chuckled, a small smile making its way to your lips as you rolled so you were on your back, “Is that so? And what would you like me to do about that?” 

“Obviously you need to make me more.” 

“And if I refuse.” 

“You won’t.” 

“Cocky aren’t we? Well, I’m not quite done thinking, or lazing about as you call it, so you can either go make it yourself or wait until I’m finished.”

“That could take months.” 

You laughed, rolling so your back was to him, “That sounds like more of a problem for you than it is for me.” 

He was quiet for a few minutes and you let your thoughts free again, ignoring the fact that he was drumming his fingers along the arm of your chair, and then he whined, “(F/n).”

You didn’t move, giving a small smirk, “Patience, Sherlock.” 

He scowled at you and set into drumming again for a few more minutes. You abruptly got up, moving to take the mug from him and stop his hand, “Mozart’s twelve variations, a good choice though it would sound much better on your violin than my couch.” 

He looked up into your eyes, there was a spark of playfulness in them now and a cheeky grin lit up your face, a complete change from the annoyance that had colored it before. 

You spun and went to the kitchen to fulfill his demand for more tea and he got up to follow you, his newest set of deductions spilling out of his mouth as he did so, “You’ve been thinking a lot lately since your comforter has been on the floor for a number of days. I have three theories as to what about. You dislike talking about your painting, it pushes you into a place of frustration and annoyance but underneath it is a pain from something, likely the fact that you feel like he took your ability to create away from you. You’ve had no source of income for the past two years, probably another way for him to control you, so you’re living off your savings, an account he either let you keep or that was under a different name so he didn’t know about it, the later is much more probable. Your answer to Lestrade today came from the fact that you had hope, as that painting was near complete and obviously took you longer than just the short time you worked on it today, which means you had a successful session of painting at an earlier time, but it was torn from you when you started up today and it happened again. Something must have changed for it not to have ended up gray that first time, something specific to your new environment here at Baker St. but judging by your failure today, not a constant…” 

He fell silent for a moment, ruling out a variety of possibilities, and you took the opportunity to offer an answer, “It was your playing.” 

He processed that for a moment as you finished with his tea and turned to offer it to him with a soft smile, “You play beautifully, Sherlock. It helps me to forget.”

He searched your face, the tea temporarily forgotten, and found you weren’t lying. A small swell of pride overtook him as he realized that by simply being himself he had been able to quell whatever terrible memories troubled you. He wondered to what extent and for how long it would work, resolving to plot out an experiment when he had a chance, and then realized he was staring and as usual you were staring back. 

Your hair was pulled back so you could paint but a number of shorter strands had escaped to fall on and around your face and were flecked with paint where your fingers had touched to move them away. The smooth skin of your face was also broken up by a series of paint smudges- a large swipe of grey along the hairline of your forehead, a splotch of deep blue on the side of your nose, two parallel lines of red next to one ear along with a thumbprint on your cheek, and a smattering of grey splattered dots covering the lower half of your face and neck. 

Your eyes had that constant spark of mischief lighting up their depths and searched his when they connected with yours for a brief moment before trailing lower. He settled his gaze on your lips, the minions of your often-clever words and thoughtful statements, they were slightly parted and looked terribly soft. He wondered if they were and what they might taste like, the logical part of his brain kicking in to try and provide him with an answer. He could find none. 

He was curious but not enough to actually test it just yet, one must take the appropriate steps during experimentation or the results will be inaccurate, and his next step was to see if you reacted the same way as when he had touched you the other day so he brought up a hand to cup your cheek. 

You instinctively flinched as the hand came up but relaxed when his touch against your skin was gentle, unable to stop yourself from leaning into it slightly, it had been a long time since anyone had touched you like that. His thumb gently began to rub away the mark of paint on your cheek and he felt your skin warm as a pink tint spread across your them but you didn’t pull away as you had last time. 

There was still uncertainty in your eyes but it was overpowered by a curiosity that seemed to mirror his own and though the paint was gone you both stood there, frozen in a moment that seemed to be outside time itself. An illusion that was broken when John came bursting through the door, “(F/n)! My date was absolutely awful, please tell me you have something stronger than beer.” 

He came to the kitchen doorway just in time to catch your current position as Sherlock explained, “You had paint…” and you mumbled a quick thank you. 

John looked between the two of you suspiciously, feeling as though he’d interrupted something as you pushed the mug of tea into Sherlock’s hands and turned to pull open a cabinet, “Umm… I’ve got some vodka, a bit of rum, Bailey’s, and some schnapps. I could mix you something or I might also have some red wine somewhere.” 

Sherlock moved past John, going to flop down on the couch and think about the results of his most recent test. You shared his feelings, that much was obvious, and you were beginning to trust him, but you were unsure of what he wanted from you and if you even wanted anything from him.

Back in the kitchen, you tilted your head at John, who was just sort of staring at you, “Johnny? …Something wrong?”

He furrowed his brow, “What’s Sherlock doing here?”

“He wanted tea but couldn’t be bothered to make it himself and since you weren’t home-“

“He got you to do it.” John finished, relaxing as you let out a chuckle, “Precisely. Now, what can I get you before you sit and tell me all about how awful your date was?”

You got John what he requested and sat down with him to listen to him gripe about his most recent failure in the relationship department while Sherlock finished his tea in the other room and then threw his legs over the arm of your couch, letting them hang off so he could lay down on its short length and think.


	23. Chapter 23

John went to pry Sherlock off your couch but you stopped him, “Leave him be, John. He’s not bothering me and trying to move him is more trouble than it’s worth.” 

Your brother gave you a grateful glance, “Thanks, Squeak.” 

You shrugged, covering a yawn as you leaned onto his shoulder, “He’s not as difficult as you made him out to be.”

John chuckled, wrapping an arm around you, “That’s only because you put up with him and he’s nicer to you for some reason.” 

You quirked an eyebrow at him, teasing, “If you’d use your brain more he’d be nicer to you too.” 

John gave you a light shove, pressing a hand to his heart as if you’d injured him, “The things you say. My own sister.” 

You giggled, gathering him to you in a tight hug, “I love you, Johnny.” 

He rested his head on yours, “I love you too, Squeak.” 

The two of you just stood there for a minute and then you shoved him gently away, “Go before I fall asleep on you. You have to leave in the morning anyways.” 

It was true, John was going to visit some old friends in the country for a couple of days. He left chuckling as you stifled another yawn and then you scooped up the comforter from the floor and tossed it on Sherlock, being the basement apartment it got pretty cold at night and even if he didn’t notice at least it would keep him from catching a cold. 

Leaving the light in the living room on for him, you trudged into your own room and flopped down on the bed, hugging your pillow to you as you groped for your extra quilt. Your fingers went unrewarded in their search and before you could look any further, sleep weighed down on your eyelids and you escaped to the land of dreams. 

You dreamed about painting, tripping through a world made entirely of paint that seemed to have no gravity. You pushed around some floating blobs of color happily, finding that by doing so you somehow created a painting off in the distance. You skipped around happily touching this color and that, a turquoise here, a chartreuse there, a crimson and then a violet. 

Then suddenly you were spreading the paint over a large canvas, using your hands to smear smooth lines of vibrant colors across the white surface. Sherlock. That’s what it was. Your hand did it without being told, stroking out his sharp cheekbones and swirling the inky curl that always landed in his face, until he was there in front of you.

You stepped back to admire your work when a hand found its way over your mouth and a voice whispered in your ear, “Naughty girl. You’re mine and I’ll never let you go.” 

You struggled against his grasp, fear seeping into your veins as you recognized the voice, but you weren’t strong enough. You could feel his lips brush against your ear, “Watch, my angel. Watch your punishment for him. For painting. This is what you get for being bad. If only you’d been good.” 

Grey and black dripped over your canvas as you whimpered, watching your work be destroyed until it was fully covered with grey, and to your surprise, a grey Sherlock stepped out of it. A wicked grin spread across his face as your captor chuckled darkly and you struggled again when Sherlock stepped forward and brought his hand back to hit you. 

You jolted awake as you hit the floor next your bed with a thud, groaning as your limbs shook, and you curled yourself up into a ball, tucking your face into your knees. You focused on reality as best you could, breathing deeply, and then uncurled yourself to get some water or perhaps some tea. 

You were cold and you could feel the little heat you had leaving through your feet as they made contact with the freezing floor but you didn’t care, shuffling out into the living room only to go weak in the knees when you saw Sherlock on the couch. You groped for the wall behind you, sliding down to lean against it as you pulled your knees to your chest again, softly reassuring yourself that it was just a dream and before you knew it you had drifted off again. 

Sherlock watched you, having been brought out of his thinking by you falling off your bed, and was about to get up and put you back in bed when you stirred again, inhaling sharply as your head shot up and then burying your face in your hands. You pushed yourself up off the floor, visibly shaking, and shuffled to the door, opening it and shutting it gently behind you. 

Sherlock frowned, you hadn’t had nightmares before, if you had you wouldn’t have been as shaken. What had changed? He pulled your blanket tightly around him and tugged his knees up so he could curl to look at the back of your couch. 

The comforter smelled like you, he realized, as he took a deep breath, paper, graphite, freshly cut grass, and something sweet… like hot chocolate. It was oddly soothing to him. He leaned back to think and found that he could slip into his mind palace with no effort what so ever, quickly losing himself in his thoughts again.

You climbed all the stairs to your brother’s room, sleepily stumbling from time to time as you tried to stay awake, and cracked the door to softly call, “Johnny?”   
You could see his sleeping form startle at the sound of your voice and there came a groggy answer as he stretched, “Squeak? What’s the matter? Sherlock didn’t-? 

You cut him off, “No. He didn’t…” you swallowed, recalling your dreams, “He’s still thinking.” 

John was sitting up now, rubbing his eyes, “What is it then, (F/n)?” 

You suddenly felt stupid for running to your brother like a child over a silly nightmare and shook your head, “It’s nothing. Sorry I woke you, John.” 

He was awake enough now to know you were lying as you tried to slink back out the door and tumbled out of bed to stop you, shutting the door before you could get to it. 

“What’s wrong?” he demanded. 

You chewed at your lip before you ashamedly admitted, “I had a nightmare.” 

He sighed before reaching to pull you to him, letting out a grunt when he felt how cold you were, “You’re freezing. Come on. You can stay with me.” 

You let him pull you over to the bed, it had been years since you’d slept with John but you were shaken enough that you didn’t care. It had always been John that you had run to when your dreams turned scary or you couldn’t sleep as a kid and, just like now, he would pull you into bed with him, tucking you protectively against his side before both of you fell asleep. 

You couldn’t help but giggle as he grabbed the blanket and pulled it over both of your heads completely to create a warm little cave before he commanded, “Alright, Squeak. Tell me about this dream.” 

You shook your head and he playfully teased, “Oh come on, you can tell me… unless it’s rude. There are some things I can’t unhear.” 

You chuckled as you stuck out your tongue, “I would hardly call something like that a nightmare.” 

He laughed sleepily, “You’d be surprised. One time I dreamed-“ 

“Johnny!” you squealed, disturbing your cave as you brought your hands up to cover your ears. 

The two of you dissolved into giggles like children and John asked quietly, “Feeling better, Squeak?” 

You pulled a pillow to your chest as you always did and rested your head on his shoulder, “Much. Thank you, Johnny.” 

He wrapped a reassuring arm around you with a yawn, “Anytime. It’s almost time to get up but I think we should get some sleep till then.” 

You were already asleep before he finished and he tightened his grip on you, knowing you wouldn’t come to him for just anything and that if you didn’t want to tell him it was probably bad. He wondered if he should stay home- he was already hesitant to leave you alone, especially with Sherlock, but you had insisted he not decline on your behalf. 

You mumbled in your sleep about idiots and taxi cabs before shoving him away from you with your feet as you grumbled, “I don’t touch idiots, Anderson. It’s catching.” 

John chuckled, you’d be fine.


	24. Chapter 24

You woke up with a sore throat, no doubt courtesy of the cold in your flat, and groaned, rolling over to look for John. He was gone and when you saw the time it was no surprise, like clockwork that man, always up before nine. Pulling yourself out of bed felt like the most difficult thing in the world but you managed to get yourself to your feet.

You trudged down the stairs, rubbing your eyes as you came into the living room, only to jump when they found Sherlock in his chair. You snapped your head to face forward and then consciously avoided that area, slipping into the kitchen in search of John. 

You found him, as usual, making tea and quietly began poking at Sherlock’s science equipment on the table, you’d always been interested in the oddly colored liquids he worked with and wondered briefly what would happen if you mixed two of the vials together. 

John happened to look up just as you got a wicked smile on your face and picked up a vial with something blue in it, “Put that down.” 

You pouted in a slightly hoarse voice, “But it’s so pretty… and it would look prettier mixed with that.” 

You innocently pointed to a green vial, still holding the blue one in one hand, secretly hoping something cool and/or destructive would happen, and John leveled you with a glare, “Put it down. I already have Sherlock almost blowing up the flat on a regular basis and he knows what he’s doing. I don’t need you causing trouble too.” 

You pursed your lips unhappily, putting the vial back in its place reluctantly just as Sherlock came into the doorway. Your eyes went wide and you ducked behind John as he stepped forward to pick up the vial you’d just been holding, scrutinizing it in the light. 

 

He turned to say something to you but you were gone, having dashed out the door while he was otherwise distracted, and John just shrugged when he gave him an inquisitive look, “If you want to know how her mind works go ask her ‘cause I haven’t the foggiest.” 

You were sitting in John’s chair when he came into the living room, your knees pulled up to your chest as you took deep breaths, trying to reassure yourself that it was all just a dream. He could see you tense as he came into your peripheral vision and, instead of demanding you tell him why, he sat down across from you, opting to read you instead. 

You looked up at him, playing the little staring game that had become common between the two of you since that first day. You didn’t try to hide anything, he would always find out in the end so it was pointless to try and do so, and let your eyes take him in, facing your fears as best you could.

He could see that you were afraid and his jaw clenched when he realized it was him the feeling was directed at, he went over his actions over the past couple of days trying to find a source for your fear and, coming up with none, came to the conclusion that he must have made an appearance in your nightmare. 

Your subconscious was making him a threat, why? What had you seen to make someone like you, uninhibited, brave, and a little crazy, so fearful of someone who just the day before you had shown more trust in than anyone aside from John? He must have triggered something by showing you a little more attention than he normally would. 

This is why we always run experiments appropriately he thought to himself, if he had kissed you there was no telling what unintended effects it may have had. He was surprised when, for the first time since he’d met you, you purposefully looked away from his gaze, burying your face in your knees with a shaky sigh. That was probably more telling to him than anything else you’d done, coupled with the fact that you jumped when John placed a hand on your back as he walked in, “You ok, Squeak?” 

You tilted your head to look up at him, “Yeah, Johnny. Just thinking.”

“The nightmare again?”

You didn’t answer, tucking your head back between your knees, and he sighed, “You can stay in my room while I’m gone if you’d like.”

You were up like lightning, bolting towards the door, “Thank you, but no, John. I’ll be downstairs.”

He looked after you with a little frown, “Maybe I should stay…”

“Why? You can hardly protect her from her mind, John.”

He knew Sherlock was right but he still wanted to, he felt so helpless, he hadn’t been able to protect you before and now you were here with him and he still couldn’t. It was aggravating. He took a deep breath to let go of his frustrations, maybe some time away would do the both of you some good. He would be able to process everything that had happened and you could come to terms with the fact you no longer had to hide things.

A short while later you saw him off, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek as you promised to at least try and stay out of trouble while he was gone before ducking back into your apartment. You toed some of the mess you’d made in your flat across the floor with a heavy sigh, sometimes your artistic side could be a pain as it was also the part of your personality that threw you into almost frantic fits of destruction when you were upset. 

You looked around. You’d pulled all your old sketchbooks from their place on one of your two large bookshelves and strewn them about, things you had tucked in them escaping to litter the floor. The corner you had set your easel up in was painfully empty as you had flattened the wooden structure and pushed it against the wall, tearing down the tarps to throw over it so you didn’t have to look at it. Your painting stool was toppled on its side and tubes of paint and brushes were tossed haphazardly on your couch and coffee table. The drafting table you used as a desk was tilted so nothing could sit on its surface and your papers, pens, pencils, and larger drawings were scattered on the floor next to it. 

You held your head in your hands, trying to get a hold of yourself before you destroyed something you couldn’t replace, and then sank down in your chair, feeling exhausted for some reason. Leaning back into it limply, you tried to go into your creative space to at least come up with a better way to handle your frustrations and uneasiness only to have your concentration rudely jarred as the door to your flat was flung open. 

You nearly toppled your chair backward as you jumped back, “Bloody hell, Sherlock! If you aren’t going to knock can’t you at least be gentle with the door?” 

His jaw went slightly slack as he took in the state of your flat and you got up to put the chair in between you and him, instinctively seeking a way to protect yourself. Your tone was slightly hostile as you softly asked, “Are you going to tell me what you want or do I have to guess?” 

“Tea,” he lied, knowing that at the moment you weren’t likely to call his bluff. 

Though annoyed you obliged, escaping to the kitchen with a slight sense of relief and leaving him to do what he did best, observe. If he had had any doubt as to your interest in him, it was squelched now as his eyes found not only the large sketches of him that had been stashed away on your drafting table but various drawings of him on things ranging from napkins to cardstock advertisements smattered across the floor. 

He stopped short of your couch when he spotted your current sketchbook on the coffee table, open to your most recent set of drawings. They were also of him but in a very different light than all the others, his face malevolent and his stance extremely threatening, and a couple had his hand raised in such a way that it was obviously going to make contact with the viewer. 

If Sherlock had ever felt like he had a heart, it was then as pain wrenched through his chest when he realized what you must have seen in your dream and in turn why you were avoiding him. He stepped over your mess and into the kitchen, watching you tense again as you sensed his presence before you took some deep breaths and mumbled to yourself about reality. 

You turned to offer him a weak grin and a cup of tea, which he accepted only to set down as he closed the gap between the two of you, trapping you between himself and the counter so you couldn’t dash away again. Your form went rigid as your brain fell back on its instincts for situations like this- you’d learned that fighting back would only cause more pain for you in the end, so you turned your cheek and steeled yourself what should come next. 

It never came. Instead, a hand gently wove its way into your hair, encouraging you to make eye contact with its owner, which you did, looking up at him through your lashes warily. His eyes looked pained and you tilted your head confusedly, forgetting your own potential pain in favor of wanting to stop whatever was causing his. 

Your fingers seemed to make their way to his sharp cheeks without your permission, taking his face in your hands as you breathed, “What’s the matter, Sherlock?” 

In response he brought his other hand up, causing you to flinch and pull your hands away from him as you internally cursed yourself for falling into a false sense of security. He brought his hand to your face cautiously, his touch as gentle and feather-light as he could manage as he shifted his other hand so he could cradle your cheeks, causing you to look up at him again as he said only one word, “Never.” 

You relaxed and he let his hands fall to his side before grabbing his tea and going back out to the living room to drop down in your chair. Standing there frozen for a few minutes, you recovered and went out to where he was to press a light kiss to his cheek as you murmured, “Thank you, Sherly.” 

A slight smirk crossed his face at his success and you plopped down on the floor to put everything back where it was supposed to be.


	25. Chapter 25

The silence was comfortable as you worked and Sherlock drank his tea and, when your sketchbooks were sorted, you arched your back and threw your arms above your head in an attempt to get rid of the stiffness that came with sitting on the floor for an extended period of time. This elicited an interesting response from Sherlock as he watched your shirt ride up and found himself chewing on his lower lip as his breath caught in his throat. His hand came up to confirm his actions, pressing against his lips for a moment before he decided it was time for another experiment. 

He set his cup down purposefully and reached down to pull you up off the floor, “I need you for an experiment.” 

You cocked a wary eyebrow at him, “John told me never to do experiments with you because there was an astronomically high likelihood that I would end up the subject.” 

He gave you a mischievous smirk, “And since when do you listen to John?” 

You broke out into a wide grin, “Lead on, Mr. Holmes. For science!”

This is what he liked to see from you, your lopsided grin and willingness to do even the impossible with a sense of enthusiasm, confidence, and, as always, curiosity. You bounded up the stairs, beating him to the top and then fidgeting impatiently as you waited for him, looking over his equipment and vials as you told yourself not to touch. 

 

He couldn’t help but give a small grin as just as he walked through the door your resolve broke and you took up the same blue vial you had earlier, “Why that one?” 

You went slightly pink, “It’s not necessary about this one per se.” 

He joined you, taking the vial as he offered his extra set of gloves and safety glasses, which you quickly tugged on and pressed on to your face. 

“Then what, pray tell, is it about?” he asked, a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice. 

You paused for a second and then responded, “Two things. One: the color… that particular shade of blue mixed with that,” you pointed to the other vial from that morning, “particular shade of green in those exact amounts- two parts green and one part blue- makes the most wonderful shade of teal and two: the probability of something fairly interesting happening when one is poured into the other is very high.” 

He couldn’t stop a chuckle from escaping his lips and you looked up at him, “Alright genius, what do you need me to do?” 

Knowing that your brain wasn’t going to let you focus on anything else until you had done it, he handed you the blue vial and pointed to the green one, “Obviously I need you to pour this into that.” 

Your eyes went wide, “Really?”

“Yes, ‘really,’ ” He mocked, rolling his eyes, “Keep up.” 

You didn’t even bother to sass him back, quickly mixing the vials together before he could change his mind, and a wide grin spread across your face at what happened. The substance didn’t turn teal like you’d hoped but you didn’t care as you gleefully watched it go a bright orange and then turn to a foam of the same color that came spilling out of the vial and over the table. 

You dropped to a crouch to get a better look at it as you breathed, “That is so wicked awesome.” 

Sherlock watched your reaction carefully and you twisted to look up at him, “I don’t understand. Why did it turn orange?” 

He arched an eyebrow at you, “Science is not art, (F/n). Color theory does not apply.” 

You pouted at him before turning back to the foam, “Can I touch it?” 

He sighed, his tone slightly annoyed, “Knowing your tendencies, would I have let you make something you couldn’t touch?” 

You gave a thoughtful nod in acceptance of that fact and then poked at the foam with your finger, “I like science…“ 

“I take it you won’t protest to helping me with some more then?” 

You stood to level him with a quizzical look, “I’m surprised at you, Sherlock, surely the answer to that is so obvious even John could have caught it.” 

He smirked slightly, “Indeed it was but I had to be sure. Now hand me that vial there.” 

Over the next hour or so he found you were a fairly good assistant and that, as he expected, your ability to read him came in particularly handy as you seemed to know what he wanted even before he fully did. You didn’t annoy him with endless questions about the science that you didn’t really understand, but patiently observed his every move and every result, occasionally asking some non-related question about his previous work on cases or his opinion on some random thing. It was simple enough that it wasn’t distracting but also spurred a conversation that was fairly enjoyable. 

After a few hours, the experiment came to a close and he gave you a final task to keep you preoccupied while he went over the results in his head. This had been about more than science, though with you he had actually gotten some work done, it was about how you interacted with him and him with you in what was a normal situation for him. 

He found that you trusted him enough to not question what he was doing, he could tolerate your presence while he worked, enjoyed it even, and your ability to read him was indispensable. He counted it as a resounding success and, in addition, he’d discovered your affinity for teal, a fact he stored away for later use. 

You poked his side to get his attention, “Are we done?” 

He gave you a curt nod and you pulled off your gloves and glasses before going to collapse on the couch with a huff and a small yawn. Your stomach growled and you sighed, wondering if you had anything other than ramen noodles down in your flat as you knew there wasn’t anything in the boys’ kitchen.

It had been a while since you’d gone shopping as groceries were expensive and you were coming to the end of your savings, you had enough to pay rent for the next two months but not much more. Since you couldn’t paint, it was time to start looking for a job. Running over some options in your head, you remembered you had a friend who ran a small French-style café across town, you’d have to call her in the morning to see if you could interview for a waitress position. 

You pulled yourself off the couch and moved to leave in search of food when Sherlock sharply stated, “Where are you going?” 

You froze, “I thought we were done.” 

“With the experiment, yes, but I have a theory to test that I’m going to need you for.” 

You turned to tilt your head at him, you were tired and hungry but still intrigued, “Ok. Do I get to be privy to what this theory is or…?” 

He waved a dismissive hand at you, “Go put on something nice. We’re going out.” 

You nodded, knowing you weren’t going to get anything more out of him, and turned to leave, pausing again when he added, “Pick something presentable. I can’t have you looking like a tart. Draws too much attention.” 

You sighed, rolling your eyes as your patience for his brusque manner wore thin, “Oh for heaven’s- Don’t dress like a pro. Got it.”


	26. Chapter 26

You practically tore apart your closet trying to find something appropriate for the weather that also fit Sherlock’s demands and came up empty-handed. Resigning yourself to hoping he didn’t want you to run around outside for very long, you picked a sleek black pencil skirt that hit you mid-thigh and an off white button down with a v neck that showed a tasteful amount of cleavage. You paired the simple outfit with a set of patent heels in a bright teal, a matching teal scarf, and warm aubergine purple cardigan. 

Having no idea how much time you had before he decided it was time to go, you dumped your make-up on the counter in an effort to find the berry colored lipstick you wanted. It wasn’t an easy feat as you hadn’t been kidding when you said you were a lipstick junkie, poking through over twenty different shades of lipstick and a handful of glosses before you found the one you had in mind. You kept your make-up classic with a dusting of gold eye shadow and winged black liner across your lids with full lashes, all balanced with the strong opaque berry toned lipstick.

You were just finishing pulling your hair up into an appropriate style with some strands falling around your face to soften it, when there was a loud thunk and then a knock on your door. 

You smirked- you may not have learned the first time, but Van Gogh be damned if he was going to fling your door open a third time without knocking. You went to unlock the door, fighting the urge to giggle as you put a hand on your hip, “Problem, Sherlock?” 

He narrowed his eyes at you as he rubbed at his shoulder where it had hit the door, “It was locked.” 

A small laugh escaped your lips, “Obviously. That’s why you knock.”

Your words fell on deaf ears as his attention turned from the troubling state of your door to your appearance, his eyes trailing over your form from the floor up. He felt like his heart stopped beating for a minute and his mind momentarily short-circuited before kicking back up at breakneck speed to take in every single detail of your outfit and your legs and your curves and your… unamused expression.

“If you’re quite done molesting me with your eyes, Sherlock, I’d like to get whatever this theory is tested and over with.”

He gave you his own unamused look before turning to walk out of the flat, “You look… presentable.”

You rolled your eyes, having caught the smile that he’d been trying to hide as he turned, and took a moment to look him over as you followed him out the door. It was hard to tell if he was dressed differently than he usually was because of his ever-present trench coat and scarf.

Once the two of you were bundled into a cab, sitting across from each other, you looked out the window and wondered what this was all about. Sherlock had been very pleasant to you today. You assumed it was because he knew about the nightmare and his role in it and while nice it was a little disconcerting. 

He’d succeed in reassuring you that he would never lay a hand on you in that way but there was still the troubling matter of your painting. There was also this niggling fear that your ex would somehow know you’d not only started up your work again but that you had a strange quasi-relationship with your brother’s flatmate. 

You thought about what would happen if he did manage to find you, the punishment you’d receive, not realizing you were holding your breath until your vision blurred and you sucked in a sharp gulp of air to compensate. You cursed yourself, knowing that Sherlock definitely noticed that, and prayed he wouldn’t push anything because you weren’t in the mood to indulge him in his deductions, especially when it came to this. 

You took a slow deep breath and went over color theory and cross-hatching techniques in your head to keep your thoughts from wandering dangerously into memories or imagined scenarios, hoping to reassure your subconscious that that part of your life was over now.

Sherlock opted to look at you instead of out the window as you were. The last time he’d seen you in anything other than a jumper and jeans was when you’d gone out after the unfortunate mug incident. He was beginning to think an obsession with jumpers was something that ran in your family, as both you and John seemed to have an unending supply. 

This time he could take in your attire with a little more interest than the first time as he’d been in denial then. It was always fascinating to him that just a change of clothes and appropriate make-up could make most men see a woman in an entirely different light. Up till now, he couldn’t understand it; he still didn’t to an extent… it was so base. A change in appearance could hardly change if they were terribly dull or not, so the new attraction was purely physical. 

Considering this when he looked you over, he found that maybe when one was already content with another’s intelligence and personality the addition of enhanced physical attraction was much more enjoyable and at the very least interesting. 

His gaze seemed to have a mind of its own, finding your legs, lips, and chest more often than he was even aware of, and he couldn’t seem to stop chewing on the inside of his lower lip. Internally he was much the same, his heart seemed to vary in rates from dangerously slow to treacherously fast and his mind was conjuring up some very interesting images. This was by far his most complex experiment involving you and the results were already fascinating. 

He was so busy observing himself that he almost missed the pained expression flash across your face before you took an audible and fast breath of air. Almost. 

Looking you over, he came to the realization that you were very good at hiding your thoughts from him. Sure he could easily read you- what you had done during the day, how you were feeling, things like that- but what actually went through your mind was somewhat of a mystery to him. Normally he didn’t care, you gave him clues in your actions so he didn’t feel the need to know, but now you were sitting, unmoving, with your face showing only the slightest signs of being troubled and he was frustrated. Something had upset you, that much was obvious, but what. His mind started to race to find an answer, using clues from earlier that day to come to a tentative conclusion: you were thinking about your ex.

He moved to sit next to you, causing you to turn from the window to look at him, “Yes, Sherlock?”

“Tell me.”

You sighed, “There’s nothing to tell.”

“There is. Don’t lie.”

You chewed at the edge of your lip and looked back out the window in an effort to ignore him that was quickly thwarted when he wove his fingers between yours, making you snap back around to look at him.

He was unfazed and caught you in his intense gaze, locking your eyes with his so there was no chance of escape, “Tell me.”

Your voice came out soft and unsure, “What if he finds me?”

You tore yourself away from his intrusive stare, “I know it’s irrational- the odds of him finding me are low- but if he did… there are so many things he would punish me for.”

Sherlock’s grip on your hand tightened, “John would never allow it.” 

He would never allow it.

You didn’t respond, looking out the window again pensively, you knew he was right but in truth that was part of your fear, something could happen to John if it ever came to that. He could end up hurt or in jail because of you. It was a rather terrifying thought.

Sherlock frowned at the back of your head, he wanted you to feel safe so you could go back to your normal habits instead of living by that man’s rules in anticipation of his return to your life. He even briefly wondered if Mycroft had any pull in France, maybe he would agree to put him in jail so you wouldn’t have to live with the uncertainty.

He was lost in his thoughts, coming up with and then dismissing various options, when you squeezed his hand and he turned to look at you in response. Surprisingly there was a smile on your face, “You’re cute when you fret.”

“I’m not fretting.” he denied firmly.

You just gave a knowing closed-lip smile and a small hum of amusement before looking out the window again as he scowled at you. How did you do that? How did you see these things? You weren’t supposed to know he was fretting, much less think it was cute. Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, was anything but cute. Handsome, intelligent, arrogant, and cheeky- among other things- but certainly not cute. What did you think he was? Some sort of overgrown kitten?

You giggled, drawing him from his thoughts again, and he realized he’d been making a face, which was no doubt the cause of said giggling. He opened his mouth to say something to put an end to your small bout of mirthful laughter but then thought better of it, it was far better than the worry you’d been wrapped up in just moments before even if it was at his expense.


	27. Chapter 27

The cab pulled up to your destination and he used your connected hands to pull you from it before releasing you as you asked, “What is this theory we’re testing?”

Without answering, he stalked off down the street and you shrugged, jogging as best you could in heels to catch up to him. You stayed relatively close to him so you didn’t lose him in the crowds walking the streets but still did your customary examination of everything you passed, a wide grin plastered across your face as you enjoyed London at night. You didn’t even mind that you were beyond cold or that your feet were beginning to hurt as he led you to where ever you were going, getting a second wind as your sense of adventure kicked in. 

He abruptly came to a halt, turning quickly to catch you against his chest as he anticipated you’d be distracted enough not to notice, as usual. You grinned up at him gratefully and to your surprise, he was smiling down at you with a glint of something strange in his eyes, you tilted your head as you tried to identify it but he had already begun to usher you through the door to a small Italian restaurant. 

A bearded man, who you assumed was the owner, swooped forward to greet you and you ducked behind Sherlock to cautiously observe the interaction as had become a habit when meeting new people. 

 

“Hello, Angelo.” Sherlock greeted warmly. 

Angelo gave a wide grin, “Sherlock! Table for one tonight? Didn’t work out with your date?” 

You let out a lilting laugh, leaning around Sherlock to look up at him, “You brought John here?” 

He lifted his arm, shifting so you were next to him before resting his hand on the small of your back, “Yes. I believe this is where his concern with people talking began.” 

You giggled, thinking about your brother here with Sherlock on a ‘date’ and Angelo gave you a soft smile, “Seems I was wrong, a table for two it is. Does your date have a name, Sherlock?” 

You went wide-eyed and began to shake your head just as John had when the man said the word ‘date’ but Sherlock didn’t miss a beat, “Angelo this is, (F/n). (F/n), Angelo.” 

You shook his hand, giving him a shy but curious grin, before he led the two of you to a table next to a window, telling you that whatever you wanted was on the house as always and babbling on about how Sherlock was amazing and had gotten him out of a murder charge. 

You listened intently as a grin grew on your face and then slid into a chair across from Sherlock, waiting for the man to leave before quietly asking him, “That theory you wanted to test didn’t have something to do with me being hungry, did it?” 

He didn’t look at you, studying the menu with a flat expression, “No, don’t be absurd.” 

You sighed, wondering again what exactly this was between you and him, and pressed a hand to your temple as you felt a headache beginning to form. As you looked over the menu, you drummed your fingers on the table. 

Sherlock eyed your hand for a moment and then looked back to his menu, “Go ahead.” 

You looked up from yours, “Hmm?” 

“It’s obvious your fingers are practically itching to draw. Go ahead.” 

You blushed, looking back to your menu, “That would be rude.” 

He gave you a look that said ‘who do you think you’re talking to’ but you just continued to look at your menu, refusing to give in. It wasn’t long before your fingers began to drum on the table again and he let out an amused hum, to which you pulled your hand into a fist and plopped it into your lap. Next, it was your heel, rhythmically tapping against the floor, and he looked over at you with a raised eyebrow. 

You groaned, letting the menu slide from your hand, “Fine. I can’t take it anymore. You win.” 

He smirked and you pulled out your sketchbook and a pencil, leaning it against the table as you appeased the relentless itching in your fingers. Sherlock watched you draw intently, taking in the faces you pulled as you put down lines on the page or carefully smudged at the paper with your finger or the eraser. You were in your element and it was truly fascinating to watch, your face practically glowing. 

He ordered for you when someone came around and shortly after you stopped, looking over at him with a small happy smile, “Thank you for being patient with me, Sherly.” 

The corner of his mouth tweaked up as his eyes flicked to your still open sketchbook and you shuffled it so he could see, letting his fingers wrap around the edges to take it from you. While he looked over your sketches, you leaned back in your chair, the exhaustion of the day and not getting full nights sleep hitting you full force as the pounding in your head settled in. Sherlock failed to notice this, enthralled with your work- a couple of sketches of him in the dim lighting of the restaurant along with a couple of Angelo- and when he looked up you were gazing out the window, watching the people walk by. 

He shut the sketchbook and set it on the edge of the table, following your gaze, “He’s cheating on her- “ 

“With her brother,” you finished, eyes still following the couple before turning to land on him, “That man on the corner. What do you think?”

He looked out the window, just a glance, before returning his eyes to yours, “Divorced. Three children and none of them live with him, a fact he’s quite happy about. Travels often for his job which is good because he hates London, too rainy and cold in his opinion.” 

You grinned and he tilted his head at you, “What?” 

You looked back out the window, “Nothing… I just love it when you do that is all.” 

He gazed out the window again, a grin playing on his face “Pick another.” 

You obliged happily and this went on for a while longer, with him even challenging you to deduce someone every once in a while. Your food came, which you ate while Sherlock chatted away about how boring cases had been lately as he waited for you to finish, and then it fell quiet for a second. You looked at him with a sly smile, “Did you prove your theory?” 

He smirked and gave a single nod before standing, “Come on. Let’s get home.”

You followed him out, glad to be on your way home again since your throat was killing you and your head was still pounding, and let out a little sigh as he stalked off down the street again. The temperature had dropped considerably while you were inside and, since you weren’t dressed for the cold, your skin prickled and your lip quivered as the night air enveloped your body. You followed after him as he moved along at a brisk pace, letting the effort of keeping up with him warm you until he stopped and called a cab. 

He seemed to be deep in thought when you looked at him so you let him be, closing your eyes to try and soothe your head as the cab made its way to Baker St. 

Sherlock was indeed thinking. The little date he’d tricked you into had been fairly successful. He wondered why John had such trouble with them, it had been simple enough. You had enjoyed yourself, he knew that, and surprisingly he had found it enjoyable as well. He had thought it was going to be terribly boring but you’d offered him a challenge and he’d gotten to see a little more of how your mind worked, a valuable fact in his continuing quest to figure you out completely. 

He came out of it when the cab stopped in front of the flat, surprising you when he quickly paid before you could even get your wallet out, and then the two of you disappeared inside. He lingered in your doorway again and you turned to find out what he wanted, looking up into his eyes curiously. 

There it was again, that hint of something that you couldn’t place, and you unconsciously stepped a little closer to get a better look. He hesitantly brought his hand to your cheek and, for the first time, you didn’t flinch but instead immediately leaned into his touch, eyes flickering closed for a moment- a moment he took to lean in and press his lips against yours. 

You were shocked, to say the least, and the feel of it was so unsure, unlike anything you would have ever expected from Sherlock, but you gently pressed your lips back against his. 

It was like in doing so you’d flipped some switch as his confidence was back like a flash and his large hands fell to your waist, pulling you to him as he deepened the kiss. You responded by trailing your hands up and weaving them into his hair, allowing him entrance to your mouth when his teeth brushed against your lower lip. 

You let him explore, enjoying the feel of his tongue in your mouth, until you absolutely needed air, parting from him with a little gasp as his lips found their way across your jaw and down your neck, nipping at your pulse before sucking at it as you let out a soft moan. 

Your brain couldn’t even function much less wrap itself around what was happening when he suddenly pulled away, a light pink tint to his cheeks, “Not good?”

All you could do was let out a little chuckle, “Unexpected but good. Very good.” 

He looked away, the pink growing a bit darker as he admitted sheepishly, “I got a bit carried away.” 

You grinned, he was so unsure and adorable, before pulling him back to you to give him a short gentle kiss, “Good night, Sherlock.” 

He watched you go into your flat, tossing him one last glance as you closed the door, and then pressed his thumb to his lips. He’d only intended to kiss you, something short and simple, but his body had gotten in the way again. His heart had felt like it had stopped and he’d even worried for a second before it came back pounding in his chest full force. 

As soon as he’d felt the softness of your lips beneath his, it was like someone else had taken over and all he could think of was wanting more, finding they were far softer than they looked. All in all, it was an interesting development, he noted, and it could be potentially useful to stave off boredom. He’d have to try it and see.


	28. Chapter 28

You had never been so glad that you’d become a light sleeper as the next morning when your phone went off. You groggily pressed it to your ear before shooting straight up with a grin, “Really? Ok, I’ll be there in twenty. Merci, Merci, Merci. A bientôt.” 

You had a job! 

You’d shot a text to your friend while you were getting ready the night before and now she was short two servers. If you did well today, you could have all the hours you wanted. You pretty much tumbled out of bed, grabbing a pair of black slacks and a white dress shirt that were loose on you but still appropriate for working a café, quickly did your hair, pulled on a pair of black flats, and bounded out of the flat.

You were just about to slip out the front door when you froze and smacked your forehead with your palm, spinning to knock on Mrs. Hudson’s door. You knew she had already been awake for a while and the door quickly opened. 

Before she could get a word out, you babbled, “Sorry Mrs. H. Gotta go. Could you tell Sherlock I’ll be back late afternoon if he asks?” 

She nodded, “Of course, dear.” 

“Thank you! “ you called, already rushing out the door. 

You worked a double shift without a break, your cheerful personality winning over customers, and your friend was ecstatic. You had taken the place of both her servers with ease, spoke fluid French to the customers that expected it, and got on great with the kitchen and other wait staff. She not only offered you a full-time job but paid you generous overtime for working double. 

 

You waltzed home exhausted but enthused that you had been able to solve your problem so quickly, things were looking up for you it seemed. Humming one of Sherlock’s symphonies happily, you trudged through the door to your flat, only to freeze when you found Sherlock in your chair in his dressing gown, his knees pulled up to his chest with his hands folded on top of them. 

You pulled off your coat and kicked your shoes off your sore feet as you raised a questioning brow, “What are you doing in my chair, Sherlock?” 

“Sitting. Obviously, (F/n), use your eyes.” 

You did, rolling them at him in annoyance, “I meant why are you in my apartment?” 

“That’s not what you asked.” 

“Well I’m asking it now,” your patience was wearing thin, you were on the verge of losing your voice, and you just wanted to sit down with a good cuppa and kick your feet up. 

“I asked you to make me coffee.” 

“When?” 

“This morning around ten.” 

You raised a brow at him again, “You do realize that I wasn’t here then.” 

“Well, obviously or I would have had coffee by now.” 

You blinked at him a couple of times and he chided, “Coffee, (F/n). Black. Two sugars.” 

Resisting the urge to punch his face in, as the subtext of his words was clearly telling you to do, you went to the kitchen to fulfill his request. You wanted to make tea anyways it didn’t take that much more effort to make him a cup of coffee. 

You weren’t surprised at all that what happened the night before changed absolutely nothing. You were beginning to think he was just curious and you just happened to be there for him to test out his curiosities. Not that you were complaining. If it had been anything like a normal relationship, you likely would have run the other way without looking back. 

Still, the man had just waited almost eight hours for you to come home and make him coffee instead of just making it himself… or at least getting Mrs. Hudson to make it. Stubborn and aggravating, is what it was. 

You yawned and rubbed at the back of your neck to try and release some of the tension there, wanting to lazily drag charcoal over a smooth piece of paper to create some soothing scene. A landscape maybe… an ocean or a river, something with water, you decided, walking out to deliver the cup of coffee to Sherlock. 

He finally opened his eyes to look at you as you pressed the cup into his hands and, forgetting about your own tea, went and righted your drafting table so you could put a large pad of paper on its slightly tilted surface. You pressed a hand to your forehead as you glanced around, trying to remember where your charcoal had ended up before spying it across the room. Sherlock watched you with the same intensity that he always did and was just about to open his mouth to voice the deductions running through his head when his phone rang.

His face lit up like Christmas and you gave a little smile, already grabbing a more comfortable pair of sneakers to shove on to your feet in anticipation of his next words. 

“We have a case!” he exclaimed loudly after hanging up on poor Lestrade, “A potential serial killer! (F/n), isn’t that wonderful?” 

You chuckled at his enthusiasm fondly before pulling him to his feet and giving him a little shove toward the door, “Just fantastic, Sherlock. Go change.” 

You couldn’t help but giggle as he practically fell out your door and leapt up the stairs. You took the opportunity to drink what was left of his coffee, pulling a face at the taste but hey caffeine was caffeine and you certainly needed it, before tugging on a black jumper with a pair of grey jeans and fixing your hair more securely. 

You had just put one arm through the sleeve of your jacket when he popped up in the doorway to pull you away, your jacket sliding off your shoulder and to the floor of your flat, where it stayed as you looked over your shoulder at it forlornly, “Sherlock. My jacket.”

He did seem to be able to hear you, already pulling you into a cab, and you sighed, it was no use. Might as well give in to the excitement welling up in your own chest as you looked out the window of the cab eagerly, wondering what the night would have in store for you and your dark haired friend.


	29. Chapter 29

Lestrade was relieved to see the two of you show up at the scene, handing Sherlock the case files for the other two murders and giving you a small grin. You returned it before diligently following Sherlock as he explained the case files to you while walking toward the house. 

You got a strange feeling as you took in your surroundings, letting Sherlock go ahead of you as you did what you did best- observed. You came out of it with a little frown, stepping over to the body to stand next to Sherlock, and he looked to you, “What do you see?” 

You shook your head, “Something’s not right. He fits the profile, same erratic stabbing pattern and similar features to the other two victims, but he didn’t live here… I just have this strange feeling that something is off. I can’t place it.” 

Sherlock nodded, going back to his own deductions, “The other two victims were killed in their own living spaces. This is his sister’s house.” 

You only vaguely heard that as you wandered around again, tuning out Sherlock’s deductions to let a wariness settle over you. The victim looked to be in his late thirties, hard worker, married with children, and his face held a certain aura of kindness mixed with determination. Your general observations couldn’t in any way compare to Sherlock’s since deducing people didn’t come naturally for you, it was learned from years of watching people around you with the utmost curiosity. 

Your ability to see people’s emotions just by looking at them, now that was natural. You always said that it was because you truly looked where others did not, it was what made you a fantastic artist as you captured things as they really were in a way that allowed others to see it. You could tell just by looking at that man that he would do anything for his family… so why was he here? What was going on with his sister that he came over alone while she wasn’t here and got murdered as a result… unless…

You stopped in a sitting room a ways off and yelled, “Where’s the sister?” 

A random forensics person answered, “Talking with D.I. Lestrade, outside.” 

You turned on your heel and walked out, seeking out your target from the porch. Your eyes locked on a distraught looking young woman attached to a stocky man, both of them talking seriously to Lestrade, and your stomach turned before you called out to Sherlock, “Hey, genius! Come here a mo.” 

He complained that you were pulling him away from the area where the body was but came anyway and you turned to look up at him, “Rough me up.” 

He was visibly taken aback by this, already shaking his head, but you flashed him a look and he glanced toward where you’d been looking as you said, “I have a hunch.” 

Sherlock considered this for a moment- he had promised never to harm you but you had approved and he could easily make it seem more severe with a little bit of acting. Hesitating for a moment longer before he set his jaw, he gave a single nod and roughly grabbed your wrist to drag you towards Lestrade, loudly announcing, “You useless idiot! Can’t you do anything right?! I asked for one thing, just one bloody thing, and you managed to screw it up!” 

You convincingly stumbled along behind him, welling up tears in your eyes as you pleaded, “Sherlock, I’m sorry. Please. You’re hurting me.” 

He chuckled darkly as he threw you forward into a car near Lestrade and the couple, clearly garnering their attention before he slapped you across the face, “That will teach you to pay more attention in the future.” 

You’d scrunched your eyes shut as soon as you’d hit the car, refusing to see the whole thing happen no matter how fake it was. He’d made it look far worse than it actually felt but you still pressed a hand to your stinging cheek, nodding tearfully, “Of course, Sherlock. I’m sorry.” 

He crossed his arms, “Go talk to the sister and don’t muck it up this time.” 

You purposefully hesitated, thinking to yourself that you would have made a fantastic actress as you waited for him to hiss angrily, “Go! Get out of my sight.” 

You slunk over to where Lestrade was giving you a rather horrified look and addressed the young woman, “Could I speak to you alone for a minute, Miss Thacker? I mean if it isn’t too much trouble…” 

The man on her arm responded for her, “No. She’s already had a rough night. Can’t you just leave her alone?” 

You opened your mouth but were cut off by Sherlock audibly grumbling, “Useless. Why do I have to do everything myself…” and then addressing the man “We need to ask you some questions as well, this will go a lot quicker if you let my subordinate talk to her.” 

The man looked between the two of you and you kept your eyes trained on the ground and your stance weak, in no way posing a threat to him, so he agreed, following Sherlock a short bit away. Lestrade placed a hand on your shoulder, worry clouding his eyes, but you gave him a slight smirk and wink before pulling the young woman out of earshot of your respective men. 

You gave her a warm smile, “I’m (F/n) Watson. What’s your name?” 

“Lisa. Lisa Thacker.” She answered, sniffling. 

You pulled her down on to the hood of a police car, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, “I’m so sorry about your brother, Lisa. I have a brother too and I don’t know what I’d do if something like this happened to him.” 

She just sort of numbly nodded and you continued, straight to the point, “When did he start hitting you?” 

Her eyes shot up to meet yours, flashing fear in amongst the overwhelming grief, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

You sighed knowingly, “I’ve been where you are.” 

She looked towards Sherlock and you added, “And not with him. He just did that to get you away from your boyfriend so we could chat.” 

She scrutinized you and you locked eyes with her, conveying that you spoke the truth as strongly as you possibly could, “Lisa. I need you to tell me what happened. I promise he won’t be able to hurt you anymore. It’s possible to get away, to start again, but you have to make the decision to leave and never look back. Don’t wait until he almost kills you like I did.” 

She searched your face for any sign of deception and then burst into tears, “He killed my brother… he just…h-he just killed him.” 

You wrapped your arms around her, letting her sob into your shoulder, “Your nieces are going to need you, Lisa. I know nothing can bring him back but he loved you enough to try and stop this and the only person to blame is the man who took him from you. Not you. Remember that.” 

You patted her back with one hand and pulled out your phone with the other, texting Sherlock and Lestrade the same thing before returning to comforting Lisa as Sherlock pinned her boyfriend against a car and Lestrade slapped some cuffs on him and shoved him into it as he yelled profanities. 

Lestrade approached you two cautiously and you hushed her, “Lisa, I need you to tell my friend Greg here exactly what happened ok?” 

She gave you an unsure look and Lestrade offered her a small friendly smile as you soothed, “It’s alright. I promise he’ll take good care of you.” 

He nodded, taking her hand, and you quietly whispered to him so she wouldn’t hear, “Make sure she shows you the bruises.”

Once she was away from you, your calm façade broke down and you moved to lean against the side of one the further police vehicles, away from prying eyes. Your wrist was already starting to turn purple and your heart raced faster than your thoughts could form as your breathing became short and ragged. This could have so easily been you and John if he had intervened in your abusive relationship, it was so similar you couldn’t bear it. Damn your overactive imagination and the images it just called up. 

You were desperately trying to reassure yourself that it was all in your head and Sherlock had only been doing as you asked but you couldn’t seem to get a good grasp on reality. 

You were well on your way into a full blown panic attack when an unaware Lestrade approached you, “Good work, (F/n). How did you know about the boyfriend?” 

You shook your head, trying to keep from just sort of dissolving into a mess on the ground, “I lived it. Six months ago that could have been me.” 

Saying it out loud clinched it and you sank to the ground to hold your head in your hands, feeling like you couldn’t breathe and only peripherally aware of Lestrade calling for Sherlock.


	30. Chapter 30

Sherlock knelt in front of you after sending Lestrade to get you water, keeping his voice low and soft, “(F/n)…”

You looked up at him, your breathing painfully short, and he calmly locked his eyes with yours, “I need you to take some deep breaths, (F/n).”

Nodding, you attempted to take a deeper breath and ended up hiccuping, frustrated tears escaping down your cheeks. He pursed his lips worriedly and reached to wipe them away but you pulled back from him shaking your head violently. He looked hurt and, immediately regretting the reaction, you quickly reassured him, reaching to take his hand. He wove his fingers between yours and sandwiched your hand between both of his, “You need to breathe, (F/n).”

You gave him a look that said you were trying and he felt lost. He didn’t know what he should do, logically he should be getting you to slow your breathing as he was sure you would soon pass out if you didn’t but nothing he was doing was helping. Even with your hand warmly sandwiched between his your breathing was still short and gasp-like. Resorting to the only thing he could think of that might help, he pulled out his phone, keeping one hand wrapped snuggly around yours, and called John. 

He didn’t bother to greet him when he picked up, getting straight to the point, “Has (F/n) ever had a panic attack before?”

“What? Not that I know of… Sherlock, what’s going on?”

 

“How do you calm her when she’s upset?”

“Sherlock, what-“

“Answer the question, John.”

There was a short silence as he thought and then answered, “Drawing. Drawing always-“

Sherlock hung up on John and released your hand to quickly pull your sketchbook out of your bag, pushing it into your hands as he searched for a writing utensil, which you shakily accepted when he held it out to you. He let out a small sigh of relief when the effect was almost instantaneous, as soon as the pen hit the paper your breathing slowed and you stopped crying. After watching you for a moment to be sure, he placed a hand on top of your bent head, “(F/n), I’m going to go talk to Lestrade.” 

You nodded without looking up or stopping and he stood, leaving you to hiccup as you scribbled away. The detective inspector had his eyes locked on you as Sherlock approached him, waiting until he was close enough to flatly state, “John’s going to kill you.” 

“At least you won’t need me to solve my own murder,” Sherlock offered cheekily and Lestrade gave him a look that said that’s-not-funny-you-twat before wrapping up a few things for the case.

“Sherlock…” your voice was hoarse and barely audible but as always he heard, snapping around to answer you. You had stopped drawing and uncurled yourself to sit cross-legged.

You beckoned for him to come closer and he did, crouching in front of you only to have you flick his nose, “You idiot. John’s never going to let me go anywhere with you now.” 

He raised one corner of his mouth and let out a short chuckle as Lestrade tried to stifle a laugh in the background, “He’s not going to have much of a choice if I bring you anyways.” 

“And if I refuse?”

“You won’t.”

You gave him a tired grin, “Cocky as usual.” 

“I prefer confident.” 

“And yet it still remains cocky. Funny how that works isn’t it?” 

You took his hand when he offered it, letting him pull you up from the ground before running a hand down your face and pulling your phone out to call John. It didn’t even finish the first ring before his voice came through the receiver, “Squeak? What the bloody hell is going on? Are you alright?” 

You chuckled, “I’m fine, John. Sherlock was just being Sherlock.” 

“So… nothing’s wrong? Why does your voice sound hoarse? You haven’t been crying, have you? I’m gonna kill that arsehole if he-“ 

“He didn’t John, it’s just late and I need a good cup of tea… Though you are welcome to punch him for being obnoxiously difficult when you get home. Now stop being such a worrywart. It isn’t good for you, remember?” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at you for this to which you simply gave him a you-know-what-you-did look as John fretted, “Are you sure? I can come home tomorrow if you need me.” 

You pressed a hand to your forehead and groaned, “I’m an adult, John, I don’t need you running home to take care of me. Besides, you’ll be back the day after tomorrow anyway. Quit fretting and enjoy yourself.” 

He begrudgingly agreed and you hung up the phone, looking over at the two of them, “This stays here -between the three of us- not a word to John or you’ll have two angry Watsons on your hands and I can tell you it won’t be pretty.” 

Lestrade nodded and you raised an eyebrow at Sherlock who in turn nodded as well, “Good, now that we are all on the same page. Sherlock, can you finish up here on your own without getting into any trouble? It’s bloody freezing and I have work in the morning.” 

“You can paint whenever and you should have brought a coat.” 

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, “Just so you know that sounded a lot like ‘punch me in the face’ to me so I’m going to say this very slowly and hope that somehow it gets through your brilliantly ignorant skull.” 

Your face was entirely unamused as you slowly spelled it out for him, keeping your eyes closed so you wouldn’t either hit him or give in to his adorably confused face, “When I said I had work I didn’t mean painting, which you already knew, and the reason I don’t have a bloody coat is because you yanked me out of my flat as I was putting it on and I dropped it.” 

As you finished, there was a warm weight on your shoulders, causing you to open your eyes to find his long coat wrapped around your frame. You ran your hands down your face as the anger from just moments before quickly dissolved, letting out a heavy sigh, “Damn it, Sherlock… What am I going to do with you…”

He gave you a cheeky smirk, “You’re going to make me tea.”

You couldn’t help but laugh before grabbing his arm and tugging him over to call a taxi, yelling over your shoulder, “I’m sure we’ll be seeing you, Lestrade.”


	31. Chapter 31

You were pretty much asleep on your feet by the time the two of you got back to Baker Street. You let Sherlock pull you up the front steps but not all the way up to his flat, digging your heels in at the still open door to your own flat, “If you want tea, it’s here you’re going to get it. I don’t want to fall asleep upstairs.” 

You shrugged off his coat and, after hanging it near the door, you picked yours up off the floor and did the same with it. He plopped down on your couch and you set the kettle to boil, leaning over to rest your head on the counter while you waited. When the kettle whistled and you didn’t respond to it, Sherlock got up to go to the kitchen, finding you fast asleep standing next to the counter in what looked to be the most uncomfortable position of the century. 

He took the kettle off and gently ran a hand down your back as he purred, “(F/n), you can’t sleep here.” 

You mumbled, still pretty much asleep, “Like hell I can’t.” 

He rolled his eyes- stubborn even in your sleep- and gave you a little shove so that the careful balance that was keeping you up was disturbed. To be fair, he did try it the nice way first. You shot straight up when you almost fell, regaining your balance as you rubbed at your eyes. 

You looked up at him like a tired child, “Sherly? What…” 

Confused, you glanced down to spot the kettle, blinking at it, “Oh yeah. Tea… Give me a minute.” 

You closed your eyes in what was supposed to be a long blink but within seconds you were wobbling as sleep took over and he sighed, looking forlornly at the unfinished tea for a second and then back at your exhausted face. Deciding that there was no way you were going to finish the tea in this state, he tugged you and you just sort of fell into his chest without actually waking up, almost immediately snuggling into him. 

A small smile made its way to his face and he wrapped his arms around you to keep you from falling, enjoying the repercussion-less contact as he let his feelings for you take over. He knew he’d pushed you too far today. He could tell just by looking at you that you’d been on your feet all day for your new job and that as much as you had loved going out on the case with him you’d been exhausted from the start. It was possible that you wouldn’t have reacted the way you did if you hadn’t been so tired. 

The panic attack itself was troubling to him. He had known you could handle the little act the two of you had put on, he wouldn’t have done it otherwise. It hadn’t been his actions that had pushed you over, but rather the case itself. It had hit too close to home, pushing you into the fears that he knew you had about losing John if that man ever found you. He’d have to keep that in mind in the future when working cases that dealt with abusive relationships- there was a limit to what you could handle and at that point, he’d have to either remove you or keep a careful eye out for any signs of distress. 

He looked down at you, you’d snuggled your cheek into his chest so thoroughly that one of the buttons of his shirt had come undone and your fingers had clasped themselves one around the edge of his blazer and the other the fabric of his shirt near your nose. He just looked at you for a second, letting his mind store away every minute detail of this moment, and then carefully sweep your legs out from under you to scoop you up. 

You gave a little whine at the movement but quickly shifted so your nose was snuggled into his neck and then let out a content sigh. His heart flip-flopped in his chest and his skin prickled at the feel of your warm breath on the bare skin of his neck but he firmly resisted the sudden urge to just stand there and nuzzle his face into your hair. 

Quickly noting his reactions and storing them away in the file in his mind now dedicated to you and only you, he took you to your room and plunked you down on to your bed. You whimpered at the loss of contact, a fact that made a smug smirk cross his face, but then quickly rolled so that the blankets were tangled around you and grabbed a pillow to pretty much tackle to your chest. 

He slipped out without bothering to turn off the lights or grab his coat and went upstairs to think, flopping down on the couch and bringing his hands up to his chin only to find he couldn’t concentrate. 

He was lonely. 

That was new. 

He wanted to feel your breath on his skin and you beneath his arm as for some reason it was comforting to him… Since when did he need comforting? 

He wondered momentarily if his experiment had gone too far, if it was messing with his ability to function correctly, and then he remembered that together you were pretty much unstoppable. You were just observant enough to be very useful and your social skills and kind tendencies were the perfect balance to his brusque manner and stinging comments. 

Once he’d decided this and determined that there would be plenty of time for you to sleepily huff warm lullabies of air into his skin, he easily slipped into his mind palace to think about you as well as the two still unsolved murders from earlier.

It was only a couple of hours before you crept up the stairs sleepily, clad in a pair of striped pajama pants and loose white shirt that you’d changed into when you woke up, and without a word curled up in John’s chair. 

Sherlock was still deep in thought on the couch, his eyes closed and his hands folded beneath his chin, and didn’t notice your presence until the early hours of the morning, startling slightly when his eyes fell on your sleeping form. You had had another nightmare he decided as he watched the slow rise and fall of your breathing before getting up to cover you with a blanket. 

He tucked it around you so it wouldn’t fall if you shifted and then stared at you in thought for a moment before leaning to press his lips to your forehead. His eyes went wide and he traded his lips for a hand, engulfing the small area of skin as he frowned. 

You stirred at his touch, eyes flickering open as your brow furrowed under his hand, and you croaked out, “Sherlock? Why is your hand so cold?” 

He frowned at you, “You have a fever.” 

You blinked a couple of times, “Oh… I guess that should have been obvious.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling ill?” 

Sleep calling out to you again, you rolled away from his touch so your back was to him, “I’m good… I just… need…the sleep…” 

His first instinct was to call John and demand he come home and deal with you, he didn’t do the whole ‘taking care of’ thing… it was tedious and boring. It wasn’t until he had his phone in hand that he thought of the conversation they’d had before John left. The one where after an extensive amount of bribing and angry demands from John, he’d begrudgingly agreed to keep an eye on you in his absence. 

He went over the events of the past couple of days in his mind, it had started off well enough, but on his watch, you’d also had a panic attack and now you were sick so it would seem he was doing a rather poor job. 

Honestly, he didn’t know what John had expected… he was- well… Sherlock- and you were you, something like this was bound to happen. The real question was really just ‘when?’ 

He put down his phone, scrunching up his face at it for a moment, calling John was a last resort. He had said he would keep an eye on you and he wasn’t going to fail. John would be annoying about it for weeks if he did and that was a whole different type of tedious. Besides, he was a genius- a little cold was no match for his intellect. Looking back to you, he pursed his lips, now that he thought about it this could be a fairly interesting study on the immune system.


	32. Chapter 32

You just wanted to sleep. Was that really too much to ask?

Sitting on the couch with Sherlock pacing in front of you, it seemed it was. At least your fever had ebbed slightly and you could think properly, otherwise, you probably would have just curled up into a ball and grumbled profanities. 

He’d forced you out of John’s chair by prodding you in the side until you couldn’t ignore it anymore and did what he wanted, moving to the couch, as you internally demanded that your body obey you and stay awake. It wasn’t all that hard because, as much as you wanted to sleep, you often went without sleep for days on end when you worked and then when he demanded it of you. It was still beyond annoying. 

The man in front of you stopped pacing and you quirked an unamused eyebrow at him, “All right, genius. Out with it.”

He had one arm warped around his chest to prop up the elbow of the other that had it’s hand pressed thoughtfully over his chin and lips and looked over at you for a moment and then away, still obviously deep in thought, “Tell me how you feel.”

“Annoyed and like I want to punch you in the throat. There may also be some other less than chaste desires underneath, but the punching thing takes precedent. Though… pressing you up against a wall and making you beg for mercy is a close second.”

He did a little double take as he came out of his thoughts with widened eyes but the smirk on your face told him you were joking just to get a rise out of him, “I have never, nor do I ever plan to have, begged for mercy.”

The mischievous smirk spread fully across your face as you pressed at him further, “I bet I could make you.”

“Don’t be rude, (F/n)” he sounded annoyed as he waved a hand at you but you could see a light pink come to his cheeks that meant his mind was imagining something not so innocent. 

What an interesting result, you thought to yourself. If he was going to use you to explore his curiosities when it came to physical attraction, then you had every right to tease him just to see his reactions. For science, of course… or art- whichever was more relevant.

“But it’s so much fun,” you pouted and he gave you a look that said be serious and answer the question properly.

“Tired.” You replied sarcastically, being defiant just because you could.

“Beyond that.” He demanded, ignoring your sass.

You sighed, “My throat is killing me, it hurts to speak and to swallow, and my head feels like it’s going to explode.”

“Can you recall when all that started?”

You closed your eyes to try and think, “Just before John left… I woke up with a sore throat and chalked it up to falling asleep without grabbing my extra quilt. The headache… that’s been on and off from when we went to dinner to now.”

Opening your eyes to find him looking at you intently, he chided, “Extra quilt? Why is that relevant? Don’t give me useless information, (F/n).”

You just stared at him for a moment, you were so very fond of that man but he could be so utterly and completely ignorant sometimes that it made you want to punch him or at least just wordlessly scream at him in frustration. He was still eyeing you expectantly, so you answered, “That was the night you were thinking on my couch.”

You hoped he would figure it out on his own, you really did, but he simply queried, “So?”

“I gave you my comforter, you twat,” you snapped at him, getting up to make yourself some tea. Just because he insisted you had to be up didn’t mean you had to sit around and answer his questions.

He had frozen and cocked his head to the side to think about the new information- he had had your comforter, that’s why you’d needed a quilt, and if you hadn’t gotten it, it was safe to reason your body had been shocked by the cold as he could remember your flat being frigid. He was starting to connect the dots. It was likely your body could have fought off the initial shock to your system, but combined with a lack of sleep due to your nightmare, your extended period of time doing physical labor, and his taking you out in the cold without the proper attire not just once but twice he could easily see how it had escalated.

Coming to this conclusion in the time it took him to blink, he spun on his heel to follow you, quietly observing. You put the kettle on and then glanced at him thoughtfully before pulling down two mugs instead of the one you’d originally planned. When you reached for the tea, his hand stopped you and you sighed frustratedly, “Sherlock, if you’re going to insist that I remain awake then at least let me make tea.”

As if he hadn’t heard you, he spun you and steered you to the couch, pushing you forcefully down into it and then throwing a blanket over you before returning to the kitchen. You just sat there with the blanket over your head for a minute, giving an annoyed huff, and then scrambled to yank the thing off your face, fully intending to give Sherlock a piece of your mind at this point. You were met with him looking at you with a raised eyebrow for your little bout of angry under-blanket flailing, a cup of tea in one hand and a thermometer in the other. 

You sighed, every time you were about to kill him and make it look like an accident, he would surprise you with some act of kindness like this. It was so unexpected from him. You loved him for his mind, for his brilliance, for his passion, for his curiosity, but it was the adorably awkward moments of kindness that kept you from wanting to strangle him. 

You reached for the tea but he pulled it away, “Temperature first.”

You pouted and opened your mouth to whine but he took the opportunity to stick the thermometer in your mouth and tap your jaw shut with a little upwards flick of his fingers on the underside of your chin. Giving up, you leaned back and waited for it to beep telling you it was done. When it did, he practically snatched it from your mouth, looking at it with a little frown as he handed you the tea as promised, “39 degrees. It’s gone up again.” 

You ignored him, happily letting the steam from your tea drift up your nose before taking a long drink with a content hum, and missed the fact that he’d disappeared again. He came back with a large bundle of blankets dumping them on the couch next to you and then took your tea from you before you could protest. 

You just sat there rather flabbergasted and more than a little dejected over the loss of your tea until he returned, placing it in your hands again as he pressed a cool towel to your forehead. You eyed it suspiciously, too tired and feverish to make your own deductions as to what he had done to it, “Sherlock… what did you do to my tea just then?” 

He looked at you like it should be obvious from his place seated on the coffee table in front of you but still answered, “I added honey for your throat.” 

You just sort of nodded and looked at it again as he gently wiped sweat from your brow, “Sherlock?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Can I go back to sleep now? I have work in a few hours.” 

He gave you a flat look, “You aren’t going to work, (F/n). I already left your boss a message.” 

Panic crossed your face and you scrambled up to try and find your phone, not caring exactly how or when he’d done that, only that you needed to fix it, “I just started yesterday! I can’t call in sick after only one day. Ah! I’m going to get fired!”

“So? You don’t like the job anyway.”

You spun to glare at him, your voice going to a yell, “Bloody hell, Sherlock, I can’t paint and I need to be able to pay my bloody rent.”

He raised an eyebrow at you calmly, “Are you quite finished?”

“No, I’m not bloody finished. I finally caught a break and you ruined it, you…” Your voice grew hoarser and hoarser as you went on until finally, nothing came out even though your lips were moving and your hand went to your throat.

You just glared at him as he shoved you back down into the couch and his voice had a teasing edge to it as he pointed out, “You can’t go to work with a fever of 39 and no voice now can you? Your boss will understand as she is also your friend and knows you really need the job.”

You gave him a look that accused him of making you lose your voice on purpose and he returned you a small smirk that confirmed it to which you mouthed, “I’m telling John.”

“No, you won’t. You don’t want to worry him.”

He’d played you. That twat. Then again it meant that you could sleep as long as you wanted now, a thought that actually almost entirely soothed the anger that you were feeling. You didn’t let him know that though, yanking your blankets up around you with a huff as you curled up to face the back of the couch.

You had literally just begun to drift off when he jabbed you in the side and you rolled to angrily gawk at him only to have something dropped into your mouth and his hand then clamped over it. 

You glared at him furiously as he demanded, “Swallow.” 

You shook your head and licked his hand to try and get him to let go, to which he rolled his eyes, “Don’t be a child, (F/n).” 

As you puffed out your cheeks under his hand in protest, he pinched your nose, “Swallow.” 

You went over your options in your head and then resignedly did as he asked, making a disgusted face at the taste of the pills when he pulled his hand away. He chuckled as you angrily turned to face the back of the couch again, dipping down to press a kiss to your temple as a reward before standing and going to his chair. 

Your fingers went to press the skin his gloriously cool lips had just grazed, your anger dissolving once again, and stayed there as you drifted off into a sleep that for once wouldn’t be disturbed.


	33. Chapter 33

Hot. 

That was the only thought on your mind as you stirred, shoving all the blankets off of your body and rolling to a seated position. Sherlock was elsewhere so you took the opportunity to slip out of his flat and down to your own, stumbling into your bathroom to take a cold shower in an attempt to bring down your fever. You could have just slept there with the water running over you, it was so nice, but you forced yourself out, pulling on some new pajamas before going to the kitchen. 

Being sick was the worst, you decided, rubbing gently at your sore throat as you put a pot on the stove for a honey drink your mother had taught you to make years ago. You had just finished emptying almost an entire bottle of honey into the pot when your ears were met with the sound of your door being flung open, “(F/n)?” 

Rolling your eyes at that fact that a genius had just called out to a temporarily mute person and naively expected an answer, you went to the kitchen doorway to level him with a glare for treating your door roughly again. He looked relieved to see you, though it was only for a split second so you could have imagined it, and you returned to the stove. 

“I need to take your temperature again,” he demanded, coming into the kitchen.

You sighed with a wince as the action hurt your throat and opened your mouth, letting him stick the thermometer in before returning to stirring your pot. You were more than surprised when he wrapped his arms around you from behind and pulled you away from the stove, his lips near your ear as he explained, “If you stand over that the heat will make the reading inaccurate.” 

 

You looked at your pot a little forlornly and then leaned back into him, might as well enjoy the contact while he was willing to give it, not to mention you were starting to feel exhausted again. That was the reaction he expected, it was safe to assume that your energy was waning and in your sick state you were less likely to question things or fall back on learned behavior that might cause you to push him away. It was an interesting little test of how you felt about him when you inhibitions were down and, in addition, he got to hold you for a short while just to see how it felt. 

Sherlock leaned against the wall across from the counter, resting his chin on top of your head as you both waited for the thermometer to beep. His hands were clasped over your stomach and you fiddled with his sleeve until there came a beep, one of his hands coming up to take the device from your mouth before moving it up to his eye level, “38. Good. Better than this morning.” 

You pulled away from him and returned to your task now that that was over, stirring your concoction a bit before opening your fridge to get milk. You let your head hit the freezer door when you realized you didn’t have any, of all the times you could be out of milk… of course this would be it. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as you stood with the fridge door open and lightly banged your head against the freezer a couple of times, noting that it was pretty much empty, “There’s milk upstairs.”

You turned to look at him pleadingly and he rolled his eyes, “Would I have mentioned it if you couldn’t have some?” 

You didn’t bother to glare at him, grabbing your pot with one hand and his sleeve with the other, tugging him upstairs before releasing him and setting the pot on the stove. You gave a small smile as you pulled open their fridge, exchanging it for a full grin at the eyeballs you found inside as you reached forward to poke them. 

Sherlock got to you before you could, steering you away as he grabbed the milk and pushed the door shut, “No touching. Remember?” 

You puffed out your lip in a pout but nodded, taking the milk from him to pour a mug and then handed it back to him so he could put it away. You took your pot and carefully poured its contents into the milk and then grabbed a spoon and went out to the couch. You sipped at your drink happily, feeling it soothe your throat, and then you reached to pull your sketchbook into your lap only to have it snatched out of your hand. You glared up at Sherlock as he moved past you, setting your sketchbook out of your reach, “Rest.” 

You went limp and flailed slightly in a little tantrum, mouthing, “But I’m not tired.” 

He ignored you, pulling out some old case files to look over while you ‘rested.’ You set your drink down to pout with your arms cross over your chest and then flopped dramatically across the couch, comically rolling and just being plain childish. It would have been more effective with sound you finally decided, sitting up with huff so you could continue to sip your drink.

When you were finished, you eyed him for a moment to be sure he wasn’t paying close attention and then darted out and down the stairs to your flat, locking the door behind you. Upstairs, Sherlock just rolled his eyes, going to his room to find his lock picking kit before heading down the stairs after you. When he got the door open, he found you sprawled out on the floor with a hand pressed to your forehead. You looked up at him dejectedly when he came to loom over you, mouthing, “You may have been right.”

“Of course I was,” he stated matter-of-factly, extending a hand to pull you up before ushering you back up the stairs. You immediately curled up on the couch in a ball and he tossed a blanket over you before going to sit in his chair. He was glad John was coming back soon since he was beginning to worry that what he was doing wasn’t working, not to mention his own throat was beginning to hurt a little. He dismissed the idea that maybe you’d given him your sickness, it wasn’t that bad- he probably just needed to drink more water or something trivial like that. 

John came home the next morning to find you curled up asleep on the couch, mumbling something in French, and Sherlock in his chair, hands folded signifying that he was thinking. He set his things down as he asked, “What’s (F/n) doing on the couch?”

Sherlock flatly responded, “Sleeping.”

John groaned, “I meant why is she sleeping on our couch.” 

“That’s not what you asked.”

He sighed, “Do you have to do that?” 

“If you’d ask what you really meant I wouldn’t have to.” 

John clenched his jaw and made a move towards the kitchen only to stop in his tracks when Sherlock ordered, “Go to the pharmacy and get some antibiotics.” 

“What? Why?” 

Sherlock finally moved from his position to look at John, “Well, as I am not a doctor, I obviously can’t. So go make yourself useful.” 

“I meant why do you need antibiotics, you arsehole,” John yelled and Sherlock gave him a deathly glare as you stirred at the noise.

John looked back to you just as you blinked awake and sat up to tilt your head at him, your voice raspy as you asked, “Johnny? When did you get home?” 

“Just now, Squeak.”

You hummed softly as you rolled to face the back of the couch, fully intending to go back to sleep, “Welcome home, Johnny.”

John shot a glare at Sherlock, “What did you do to her? I knew I should have come home after that bloody phone call. You promised to take care of her!”

Rolling unhappily back up to sitting, you held your head in your hands, “Quit it would you, John? It’s not his fault.”

John took one look at you and knew you were sick, coming to press a hand to your forehead, “How long have you been like this?”

Ignoring John and taking advantage of the fact you were awake now, Sherlock plopped down the couch next to you, holding out the thermometer, “Open.” 

You sighed and let him stick it in your mouth as John raised a curious eyebrow at the interaction before frowning at you, “Why didn’t you call me?”

Wanting to give John an answer, you opened your mouth but Sherlock cut you off, “Antibiotics, John. Go.”

“How do you even know she needs antibiotics? I’m the doctor, remember?” John growled, moving to take the thermometer when it beeped, “38 degrees. That’s not too bad.”

“She has strep.”

You groaned as they started to argue, slipping quietly past John and going down the stairs to knock on Mrs. Hudson’s door. She pulled it open and from your exasperated look knew exactly what you needed, “Come in dear. I’ll make you a cuppa.” 

“Thank you so much, Martha. They’re going at it again.” You sighed, the two of you had become fast friends and you knew you could come to her for company when things went pear-shaped upstairs. 

“What about this time?” she asked as you slid into a chair at her table. 

“Whether or not I need antibiotics… and how Sherlock was supposed to take care of me while Johnny was gone.”

“Oh dear… I can see why you came down. Sherlock did say you were ill but he assured me he could handle it.” 

“He did… as best as he could be expected to,” you nodded accepting the cup of tea from her as she slid in across from you.

Mrs. Hudson wasn’t blind, she had seen the slightest hint of worry in that boy’s eyes when he’d said you were sick and the looks you gave him when he wasn’t looking. To her, it was obvious he cared for you and you for him but with Sherlock the way he was and your past it was a delicate situation. She was about to gently broach the subject when there was another knock on her door and she got up to answer it, revealing a distraught looking John on the other side.


	34. Chapter 34

John shifted impatiently on his feet, tumbling, “Hello, Mrs. Hudson, (F/n) wouldn’t happen to be here would she?”

“She’s in my kitchen. You two should be ashamed of yourselves, chasing out that young lady with your constant bickering when she’s not well,” she scolded, letting him by.

You looked up at your brother when he came in, giving you a sheepish, apologetic smile, “I’m sorry, Squeak. We got a little carried away.”

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to, John.”

“You can’t honestly mean I should bloody apologize to that arrogant twat,” he seethed.

You shook your head, “He tried, John. That’s all you can really ask of him and I do feel heaps better than I did yesterday. He certainly does not have your bedside manner but he did his best.”

“…You’re defending him… Really?”

Pressing your forehead to the cool table top, you sighed, “Really, John.”

You felt his hand on your back and looked up, letting him cup your face in his hands as he looked you over, “How are you feeling, Squeak?”

“Merdique… but seeing as I can talk today- better. Now go apologize so I don’t have to deal with his sulking.”

John scrunched up his face, “Fine but come with me. You need a proper check-up.”

Letting him pull you up and shepherd you up the stairs again, you sank down next to a curled up Sherlock’s feet on the couch and then glared at John. He sighed and then grumbled, “I’m sorry, Sherlock. It wasn’t your fault she got sick and (F/n) assures me that you did a good job of taking care of her.”

The man sat up, looking as if it had never happened and he hadn’t just been sulking, to demand, “Antibiotics, John.”

You couldn’t help but snicker as your brother’s face turned a livid shade of red and before he could do anything stupid, he grabbed his coat and stormed out, presumably to get antibiotics. Once you heard the door slam downstairs, you reached over and brushed the inky curl away from Sherlock’s forehead, causing him to look over at you a little confused. You gave him a gentle smile, cupping his cheek now that he was facing you, “You did good, Sherlock. John’s just being John.” 

He searched your face for a moment, his heart racing, but you just yawned, patting his cheek as you stood, “You want some tea? I think I owe you a cup.” 

“You do,” he stated, shaking his head to try and focus as you moved to the kitchen and softly chuckled, “I can fix that.” 

You came back with two cups of tea, slipping one into his hand as you sank down on the couch again, leaning into the corner, pulling your knees up, and tucking your arms to your chest. He leaned back with you to think, his fingers absentmindedly tracing what seemed to be numbers on your foot as his subconscious sought physical contact with you. It was a good quiet and you felt your eyes getting heavy, eventually letting them slide closed as you slipped into a doze while Sherlock went over his thoughts. You’d defended him to your brother and his chest felt warm over that. It was kind of nice. He gave a small smug smile over the fact John had apologized and then wondered how he should approach the connection between the two of you with the man. It would probably be best not to say anything, at least not just yet.

John burst through the door, causing you to jump and Sherlock to quickly grab your mug before it spilled, “I got the antibiotics.”

You blinked a couple of times and then gave a large yawn as John sat down on the coffee table in front of you, slowly approaching his next problem, “Squeak… I need you to take these. They’ll make you feel better and stop you from being contagious.” 

He wasn’t even finished and you had already started leaning away as you shook your head and crossed your arms over your chest. John sighed before softly pleading, “Please, (F/n)?”

You just pulled your knees up to your chest as you grumbled, “Never.”

John opened his mouth to try again but Sherlock held up a hand to stop him, resting the other on your knee, “There are two ways to do this, (F/n).”

You looked up at him with wide eyes, “You wouldn’t.”

He quirked an eyebrow at you that said he most certainly would and you sighed, reaching out a hand in John’s direction, “Give ‘em.”

John startled, immensely curious as to what Sherlock had done to make you take the pills willingly, but didn’t question it, placing two round pills in your hand and giving you a glass of water. You quickly took them, sticking out your tongue and giving a little shiver as John chuckled. He pressed a kiss to your forehead as he stood and ruffled your hair, “I’ll go make you something for the taste.” 

You looked up at him like a hopeful child, “Hot chocolate?” 

“Sure.” 

As soon as John’s back was turned, Sherlock’s lips found your temple and you pressed a hand over your mouth to muffle a giggle. Satisfied with your reaction to his reward for you taking the pills, he moved to his chair, pulling his violin into his lap to play a flurry of notes as you curled up on the couch with a yawn.

You never got your hot cocoa since you fell asleep again and slept until the next morning, only stirring once or twice to change positions. The combination of resting and the antibiotics worked wonders and you woke up feeling pretty normal besides a slightly sore throat. You stretched happily, throwing your arms above your head as John chuckled from behind his newspaper, “Feeling better, Squeak?” 

“Mmmmhm.” 

“You still have to take the rest of the antibiotics.” 

You groaned, “Fine,” and then stood up to go downstairs, “I’m going down to my flat to change, be back in a bit.” 

John just gave a little wave without looking up from his paper and you slipped away to take a shower and put on actual clothes. You came back later and John was alone, watching the news in his chair, so you bounced over to ruffle his hair, “Sherlock still not up?” 

“Nope. You know how he is.” 

You grinned wickedly just as John glanced up at you and then did a little double take at your expression, “Oh no, (F/n). Leave him be, who knows what the consequences-“ 

It was too late, you had already skipped off towards Sherlock’s room, slipping silently through the door to jump on his bed like a kid waking up their parents on Christmas, “Guess what, Sherlock! I feel better.” 

He groaned, rolling away from you, and you frowned. There should have been a witty comeback or some reflex flinging you out of his bed or something equally entertaining- something was wrong. Having a hunch, you leaned over him from your place on your knees and pressed a hand to his forehead, frowning deeply at what you felt. You brushed the hair out of his face gently, “Oh Sherly… You’re burning up.” 

He curled tighter into himself in response and you sighed, “I’ll send John in while I get you some tea.”

Catching your arm before you could leave, he growled, “I don’t need your help. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

You sat back down on his bed, pulling at his shoulder until he rolled to look up at you, “Did you not understand? I said I don’t need your help.” 

He rolled away from you, stating to himself, “Why do I always have to repeat myself to idiots? Can’t they just listen?” 

Ignoring him, you started rubbing his back, feeling him tense beneath your fingers as you calmly responded, “Sherlock… Why do you take John and me on cases with you?” 

“That is an irrelevant question. Go away.” 

You simply hummed, “It’s because, even though you don’t really need our help, you find it entertaining and it makes you more efficient… So while you may not need our help right now, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t accept it because not doing so would be like leaving John at home for your next case.” 

After thinking it over for a moment, he rolled to pout at you like a child, “Fine. Just as long as you know that I can do it without you. Now go make me tea.” 

You chuckled, sliding off the bed, “Of course, Sherlock.” 

“In the blue mug,” he demanded as you pulled the covers over him and you hummed a soft, “Okay.” 

You were halfway out the door when he quietly added, “With honey.” 

You just smiled, shaking your head, and made your way out to the kitchen, passing John as he pointed out, “You’re alive and not angry or crying… I take it, it went well?” 

“He’s sick,” you stated simply as you pulled a chair over to retrieve his mug from the top shelf. 

John sighed loudly, putting his paper down, “Bloody hell…I’ll go get another round of antibiotics. Will you be okay with the drama king till I get back?” 

You hopped down from the chair with the mug just as the kettle whistled, “He’s in one of his moods but I can handle it. Just go.” 

He nodded and slipped on his jacket before leaving the flat while you finished up Sherlock’s tea. It was going to be a long next couple of days.


	35. Chapter 35

By the time John got back, you had coaxed Sherlock out to the couch, where he was laying face down in his dressing gown and pajamas with one arm and one leg hanging off the edge. He could hear you humming softly in the kitchen and went to see what you were up to, finding you swaying to your tune as you stirred a pot. From the sweet smell, he knew exactly what you were making and went to the fridge as he thrummed, “Mum’s sore throat remedy… Do we have milk?” 

“We do but-“ 

He pulled the door open before you could warn him and let out a yelp, slamming it shut and then dragging a hand down his face, “There are eyeballs in the fridge. Wh-actually you know what, I don’t even want to know.” 

You rolled your eyes, moving to get the milk, “You stir. The eyes don’t bother me.” 

A hoarse call came from the other room, “I’ll know if you’ve touched them, (F/n)” 

“I wouldn’t even dream of doing so, Sherlock~” you sang, grabbing the milk and shutting the door before your curiosity could get the better of you. You rinsed his mug from the tea he’d had while John was gone, pouring the milk in it before John added the honey mixture. Your brother gladly let you take it out to Sherlock while he cleaned up. 

 

You sat down on the coffee table- which honestly was used more like a chair than anything else- and ran a hand down Sherlock’s back, “Sherlock, love, would you please sit up so you can drink this?” 

He didn’t move but replied, “Is it in the blue mug?” 

“Mmhm.” 

He groaned dramatically and forced himself up to take the drink from you, “Some idiotic home remedy is hardly going to help. There’s no science behind them.” 

You gave a frustrated sigh, “Just drink it, Sherlock. If anything, it tastes good.” 

He pursed his lips at you but drank it anyway, cradling the mug in both hands as he hunched over it, and you leaned forward to press a cool towel to his forehead. His eyes flickered closed and he let out a soft sigh of relief as you hummed, “We need to get your fever down. Where did you leave the paracetamol?” 

“Next to the bathroom sink.” 

He whined at you when you pulled the towel away and got up but you ignored it, going to get him the pills and some water. After getting him to take the pills and finish the drink, you coaxed him to lie back and get some rest, moving to sit in his chair across from John with your sketchbook. It was only about ten minutes before he rolled to look at the ceiling, “Is this what it feels like for everyone else? Like everything is permanently slow and dull?” 

“Pretty much,” you replied without looking up, effectively cutting off your brother from starting in on him, either in anger or to tease. 

Sherlock scrunched up his face, “It’s absolutely horrid. How do you both deal with it? I’m fairly certain I would go insane.” 

You could feel John giving you a look that said can-I-please-kill-him and you shook your head, “He’s sick John. Let him have that one. Maybe, after this, he’ll have a new appreciation for the difficulties of being normal.” 

“It doesn’t excuse either of you for acting like idiots.” 

“Or perhaps not.” 

As the day wore on, John eventually got fed up with Sherlock’s groaning and demanded that he go to his room to get some sleep, doing the same with you a short while later when you started to doze off in Sherlock’s chair. 

You went in for a short shift at work the next day, so when Sherlock woke up at noon and demanded John go get you to make him tea, he found you weren’t home and texted you. You shot back that you were out and wouldn’t be back till late afternoon and he sighed, going back to his child of a flatmate and slipping into the kitchen to make him tea. 

John had never had such a hard time making tea… first, it wasn’t in the right mug, then it wasn’t strong enough, then it needed honey, then not enough milk. Finally, there was nothing more for Sherlock to complain about and he kept the tea but sat back with a huff, “You don’t make it right. (F/n)’s tea is better.” 

He ground his teeth in annoyance, trying not to snap at him as his patience evaporated, “Well (F/n) is out and won’t be back until later so my tea is all you’re going to get.” 

“Tell her to come home.” 

“What?” 

“Call her and tell her to come home. I need proper tea.” 

“I’m not going to do that, Sherlock.”

“John.” 

“No.” 

“Joohhnn.” 

“No. Stop whining.” 

Sherlock pouted for a moment and then demanded, “Pass me my phone.” 

“No.” 

“But I’m sicckk.” 

“Fine. Where is it?” John gave in, trying to get some peace. 

“On the arm of the couch.”

John rolled his eyes but grabbed the phone from two feet away and dropped it in his lap, “Here.” 

“That was rude.” 

John plopped back into his chair, “Get over it.” 

This was how the entire day progressed, with John trying really hard not to yell at a sick person, even if that person was Sherlock, as a point of doctoral pride, and Sherlock repeatedly texting you and complaining to John. You were really only gone for a few hours but to both of them it felt like days and they counted the passing minutes until you got back.


	36. Chapter 36

John literally jumped out of his chair when he heard you open the door downstairs, meeting you halfway on the stairs as he struggled to yank his jacket on, “Thank god you’re home. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“I was busy. I turned it off after the fifth text,” you replied, stopping your ascent of the stairs to talk to him.

He let out an exasperated noise, “I need to go… somewhere that’s not here. Anywhere. I’ll be back later.” 

You just waved a hand and continued up the stairs, “Go. I’ve got it.” 

“Thanks, Squeak.” He called up the stairs and then bolted out of the flat. 

You took a deep breath before swishing into the flat to sit on the coffee table, “Alright, Sherlock. I’m home. What do you need?” 

“Who said I needed anything?” he grumbled from his place facing the back of the couch in what looked to be only a sheet, which was tightly wound around him like a cocoon.

“Well, there’s the fact that John basically flew down the stairs and then the mountain of texts on my mobile… So I think it’s safe to deduce that you need something. Stop being difficult just because you can.”

“You didn’t come home when I texted you.” 

If he had said any other way than the way he did, in a hurt sounding pout, you would have walked out. You had spent a year and a half taking orders and letting a man control your every move and you weren’t about to go back to that now. With Sherlock it was different, you could see he wasn’t trying to control you or intimidate you. He was just being needy. Really needy.

 

“I was at work, Sherlock.”

“I need tea.”

You sighed and got up to make him some, letting him sulk for a little while longer so you could stretch and pull off your shoes while waiting for the kettle. You came back with his mug and a cookie you’d brought him from work, putting both in his hands when he sat up before sinking down on the couch next to him, “Better?” 

“Why the biscuit?” 

Still recouping from being sick, you tiredly leaned back into the couch and closed your eyes, “I wanted to bring you something since I couldn’t come home right away.” 

He didn’t say anything, eating the cookie between sips of his tea while you dozed and he went over his slowed thoughts. He was trying to concoct an experiment for this moment but his sick brain was too fuzzy to work it out properly. He finally just settled for seeing if you would comfort him, it could count as an experiment. You startled when you felt a weight in your lap, opening your eyes to find that he’d flopped down with his head on your thigh. You sighed, fiddling with his hair, “I’m sorry I couldn’t come home sooner, Sherly.” 

“You left me with John, it was awful. He can’t make tea correctly and acted like an idiot the entire time,” he whined before looking up at you expectantly, “Make it up to me.”

You carded your fingers through his hair, a particularly pleasing action to him and made his eyes flutter closed, and asked, “What did you have in mind?” 

“Read to me.” 

You smiled softly at his simple and innocent request, “Alright, what would you like me to read?”

His eyes opened to look up at you as he hummed, “La Belle et la Bête. Top shelf at the end.”

“Beauty and the Beast? Surprising choice,” you murmured, sliding out from under him to get the book.

He sat up to wait for you to come back, explaining rather flatly, “The French will keep my addled brain busy without too much effort.” 

In truth, he liked the story. It stuck with him for some reason, even though it was fairly useless knowledge, and he enjoyed the way French sounded coming out of your mouth- not that he would ever willingly admit that to you or anyone else. He watched you stretch for it, admiring the line of your body that became clear when you did, and had a sudden moment of clarity in his brain as another better experiment formed. You brought the book back and sank down on the couch but as you flipped it open he stopped your hand. You looked up at him, confused. There was that glint in his eye again, the one you could never quite figure out, and he brought a hand up to the back of your neck as he leaned in, faltering unsurely until you closed the tiny gap and pressed your lips to his.

It was far less heated than the first time but just as enjoyable, the kiss soft and lazy as your arms wound around his neck and you twirled his curls around your fingers. He made the most beautiful noises as your lips moved against his, deep harmonious hums that made you want to make good on pushing him up against the wall just to hear what other sounds he might make. It certainly didn’t help that you could see the smooth creamy skin of his shoulders and chest as he loosened his grip on the sheet in favor of slipping a hand to your hip, his thumb rubbing at it gently. His thoughts were similar as he tasted your lips with passing grazes of his tongue- raspberry and vanilla, probably from the drink you’d had on your break. You made a small mewling noise into his lips as his long fingers stroked at the hair at the nape of your neck, making him wish it wasn’t up so he could discover it’s softness more fully.

His body told him to go further, to find out what the rest of your mouth tasted like and then to find new patches of skin to feel out beneath his lips and fingers, but he firmly told it no. He’d gotten carried away the first time because it was new and interesting but this time he was going to be in control. He wanted to see how it felt to keep it simple, to see if he got the same high as before from just letting his lips meet yours. 

His cheeks were the sweetest shade of petal pink when he pulled away for air and rested his forehead on yours for a moment with his eyes closed, dragging in a shaky breath as he stopped himself from going any further. He sighed it out softly and then flopped back into your lap, “Read.”

You were surprisingly unfazed, cracking open the book and beginning to read, but from his position, he could hear that your heart was still racing much like his own. With a small smug smirk, he closed his eyes to listen to your voice as he got a result for his experiment- the high was the same, if not better, than the first time. He wondered if that was simply because his interaction with you was becoming more frequent and his feelings were growing or because he’d limited himself before deciding that further testing was required. 

You let the story drip off your tongue as you stroked your fingers through his hair with your free hand and halfway through soft snoring interrupted you. Glad he was resting, you set the book down and leaned your head back to join him. It was only around six in the afternoon but you were still not entirely recovered and the day had exhausted you. It felt good to let sleep slowly take over with Sherlock in your lap and your fingers still entangled in his silky hair. It was something you could get used to.


	37. Chapter 37

After John had thoroughly cooled off and started to feel bad for leaving you with what had to be the most irritating sick person he’d ever encountered, he decided it was time to go home. He was surprised to find the two of you asleep on the couch, Sherlock’s upper half completely exposed and the sheet hanging only loosely around his hips. He’d rolled face down in his sleep when you’d shifted to a slouch, burying his nose in your stomach, and one of your hands had found its way to his back while the other remained meshed in his hair. 

John took a long moment to process the scene before his mind managed to formulate a full thought, slowly repeating, ‘There’s a naked man sleeping on my sister,’ a few times in his head. He shook his head, reminding himself that you both needed your rest before he completely flew off the handle when you suddenly stirred, obviously uncomfortable in your slouched position. 

You hummed softly, rubbing at Sherlock’s shoulder, “Sherly, my back hurts.” 

He gave a low whine as he nuzzled further into you and the arm thrown over his head to hug your waist tightened around you, not actually waking but still protesting the attempt. 

“Sherlock,” you pouted, squirming and giving him a weak shove, which did nothing, before letting out a resigned sigh. Opening your eyes to find your brother just sort of staring off into space, you gave him a small smile, “Johnny, you’re back. Feeling better?” 

He opened his mouth only to shut it before letting out a heavy huff of air as he shot Sherlock a glare, working his hands open and closed. You tilted your head in confusion and then followed his gaze to Sherlock’s nearly naked form, going wide-eyed for a moment as your face grew warm before clapping a hand over your eyes with a giggle. You patted Sherlock’s head to wake him, “Sherlock. Your sheet.” 

 

He groggily groped for it, waking up fully when he found more bare skin than he had anticipated, and then froze, “Is it gone?” 

You gasped for air as you laughed, “Are you sure you want me to look?” 

John finally lost it, shouting, “No, he doesn’t want you to bloody look!” before yanking Sherlock off you as he seethed, “Go put some bloody clothes on, you twat. She’s my little sister for Christ’s sake.” 

Sherlock stumbled off in his sheet as you flopped sideways on the couch, laughing so hard it hurt while John started to angrily pace in front of you, barking, “It’s not funny, (F/n).” 

You sat up to smirk at your brother, barely holding in more laughter, “Oh come on, Johnny… it was a little funny.” 

He tried to keep a straight face as he thought about it but ended up cracking a smile and giving a little laugh, “Ok it maybe it was a little funny,” which made you grin and let loose another round of laughter. He came to sit with you, the two of you quickly in absolute stitches over Sherlock losing his sheet, laughing even harder when Sherlock came back in fully clothed with a light blush across his cheeks and his arms crossed over his chest. 

You flopped down in your brother’s lap and gasped for air, slowly calming down until you only let out occasional little giggles as you looked up at him, “I haven’t laughed like that in a long time… It feels good.”

John brushed some hair out of your face, letting go of his anger because it was really good to see you this happy, and Sherlock plopped down in his chair to sulk, “You are both such children. It’s unbecoming.” 

Coming from someone who acted like far more of child than either you or your brother on a regular basis, that statement was hilarious. You stifled a giggle and exchanged an amused glance with your brother who was grinning widely at his flatmate’s displeasure, finding it satisfying after the frustrating day that he’d had. Wanting to get up, John gently pushed you off his lap and you stood up to stretch with a yawn before scooping up Sherlock’s mug from the coffee table and taking it into the kitchen, “Are you feeling better at least, Sherlock?” 

“Much,” he responded flatly and John got up to follow you, “What about you, Squeak? How are you feeling?” 

“Fine. Good actually.”

John joined you at the stove and you gave him a little hip bump before handing him a mug of tea and then swishing out to give Sherlock his with a little grin. He took it from you without looking up and you puffed out your cheeks, “Come on, Sherly, don’t be angry. It was cute… a little rude but cute.” 

He sipped at his tea after unhappily grumbling, “I’m not cute,” and you sighed, “Fine… John’s back and you’re feeling better, so I’m going downstairs to change and turn in for the night.” 

You gave your brother a quick kiss on the cheek and said good night before slipping out of the flat as John sat down across from Sherlock and very casually offered, “You ever do anything like that again and I’ll break your nose.” 

Sherlock mumbled, “Understood,” before settling in with his thoughts. There was the matter of his newly discovered sleep clinging to ponder as well as both the fact that your eyes had lingered a bit longer than necessary on his nearly naked form and that John had not exactly reacted preferably… that may have been due to the nearly nakedness but he had a feeling that the same reaction would apply to any intimate interaction between you and him. He stored it away in his file labeled John before opening his file devoted to you. At this point, it was becoming a little cramped with information which made him briefly consider moving it into his mind palace. He decided to think more on that later as he added his sleep clinging and theories as to its cause along with your physical attraction to him to the folder and then just sort of roamed through it.

It wasn’t until he was interrupted by his phone ringing that he realized he’d been in there the entire night and it was now morning. He ignored the phone, closing his eyes again, but immediately after it stopped ringing it buzzed with a text and he scrunched up his face before reaching for it. It was Lestrade- a triple murder across town and the killer had left a note. 

Sherlock was out of his chair in a flash, shooting you a text to be ready in five, “JOHN! Case!” 

They were out the door and halfway down the stairs when he got a response, ‘At work. Have fun. -(F/I)W’ 

He stopped dead in his tracks, John almost tumbling into him as he was caught off guard by the abrupt action, and texted you again, ‘Come anyways- SH’ 

The response was almost instantaneous, ‘It’s not up for debate, Sherlock- (F/I)W’ 

He pursed his lips in annoyance and then continued down the stairs, bypassing your door without a second glance as John trotted to catch up with him, “Are we not bringing, (F/n)?” 

“She’s informed me that she’s too busy. So obviously not,” he snapped coldly. John shut up after that, curiously studying Sherlock in the cab as he wondered why your refusal had affected him in such a way and then why you had even refused since you were normally bouncing off the walls at the mention of adventure or potential trouble. 

Sherlock’s expression was flat as he looked out the window, this job thing was going to have to go. It was making you dull and he needed you with him not doing whatever it was you did at that place. He was going to have to get you painting again so you could define your work hours and make them so they didn’t conflict with cases. It was the only way. 

Even with the fact that you weren’t with them, he felt a sense of excitement overwhelm him as they grew closer to the crime scene- something told him this one was going to be a challenging one for a change and he absolutely reveled in that fact, a smile making its way to his lips as the cab came to a stop.


	38. Chapter 38

After three days of you working while Sherlock and John were on the case, you found that, while you missed seeing them every day, it was nice to be able to support yourself again. Sherlock was angry with you for refusing to come, you knew that. He was acting like a child and the only communication you had with them was the occasional text from your brother but you didn’t have time to think about it. 

As the rookie, you’d gotten stuck with the morning shift and had to be at work before four thirty, your habit of getting up early working to your advantage for once, and today was no exception. It was a relatively nice day and you had just finished dealing with the morning rush, relaxing into the lull that always followed, when a familiar face walked through the door and settled into an armchair in your section. 

You tilted your head before heading over to greet him, “Bonjour, Monsieur Holmes. How may I help you today?” 

Mycroft looked up at you, lightly licking his lower lip as his brain took in all the details needed to read you, “Coffee please- black, three sugars.” 

You gave a cheery nod, “Right away.” 

Getting his coffee, you brought it back to him and slipped in across from him with a cookie, causing him to raise an eyebrow at you as you explained, “You’re here for a reason so I took my break early.” 

He looked over the rest of the café as he asked, “How did you know that I’m his brother?” 

“It was fairly obvious. You hold yourselves with the same posture and you claim he thinks you his archenemy but, by your need for information, he doesn’t have the same interest in you as he would a criminal enemy of that stature. That left some sort of social connection and we both know Sherlock doesn’t do social, so that meant family. The worry you felt was genuine and your perception of his attitude towards you along with the age difference- It was only logical for me to infer that you are his older brother.” 

He seemed a little impressed but said nothing so you continued, “Are you going to tell me what it is that’s got you troubled enough to pay me a visit? Or do I have to guess?” 

He pursed his lips at you, “I am hardly troubled, Miss Watson.” 

You slid the napkin you’d been sketching on while you talked across the table to him with a small smirk, “Oh but you are, Mr. Holmes. It’s written all over your face.” 

He looked at the napkin and found a drawing of him you’d done from looking at him, the troubled look on his face very clear as you pointed to it with your pen, “That is what I see.” 

You tucked the pen behind your ear and leaned back in your chair to watch the people and let him think before he simply said, “You are far more clever than I originally perceived.” 

He seemed to be scrutinizing you more carefully when you returned your gaze to him and then he simply stated, “You trouble me.”

“And why is that?”

He pursed his lips, “For the same reason you intrigue my brother- there are always more questions than answers.”

You grinned, “And unlike your brother, you don’t like mysteries.”

He furrowed his brow, “Precisely. I find they involve too much… Leg work.” 

Letting out a light laugh as you stood, you patted his hand, “I can assure you Mr. Holmes- I am not as much of an enigma as you and Sherly make me out to be. Now I must be going. Work to be done, you know. If you need anything else, please do not hesitate to let me know.”

Mycroft watched you go with narrowed eyes- to say you weren’t an enigma was a complete and utter lie. It peeved him that he both could and couldn’t read you. He could tell you what you had for breakfast, how long you’d been in an abusive relationship, when the last time you had painted had been, but when it came to what you would do next it was like a big empty void- sometimes you would do what he expected and others something he’d never even considered. It troubled him. 

It was for this reason, every morning for the next three days he came in and sat in your section to watch you, trying to figure you out, and every day you took your break when he did and sat with him to chat for a bit. He always stayed longer than your break and you felt his eyes following you but you didn’t mind, if it helped him come to terms with his troubles then so be it.

Across London, Sherlock was frustrated. The case was turning out to be just as challenging as he thought and he was enjoying it but he’d come to a wall that he couldn’t seem to get around. John was only a little surprised when the man stalked off mid-conversation with the person they were interviewing, leaving Lestrade to apologize and him to run to catch up, “Where are we going?”

Sherlock yanked him into a cab, “To get your sister, obviously. Keep up, John.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he clenched his jaw in annoyance at Sherlock’s behavior and tone. He’d been more touchy than usual this case and John was starting to get fed up. At the same time, he was glad they were going to get you since they really could use your help, he missed you, and Sherlock was certainly more pleasant when you were around.

The cab came to a stop and Sherlock stalked out, leaving John to pay, as usual, and then follow him into a small upscale French-style café. They were both surprised to see you getting up from an armchair at a small table across from Mycroft, straightening your apron with your back to them as he smirked at Sherlock, “Hello, brother mine.” 

You spun to face them, tilting your head confusedly, “Johnny? Sherlock? What are you two doing here?” 

John opened his mouth to respond when a call came from elsewhere and you gave the three of them a small grin, “I’m afraid I have to go. It was a pleasure to see you again, Mycroft, and, as always, if you need anything please do not hesitate to ask.” 

Sherlock glared at his brother as you swished away and John tilted his head, “She works here?” 

Both Sherlock and Mycroft rolled their eyes, “Obviously.” 

“We will speak of this later, brother dearest.” Sherlock growled through clenched teeth as his brother gave a small smirk and raised an eyebrow, and then he moved to follow you, “(F/n).” 

You glanced over your shoulder, “I’m working, Sherlock.” 

“Take a break.” 

“I just took one. I can’t take another.” 

Sherlock shot a glare back in Mycroft’s direction, feeling an odd animosity toward his brother over the fact he’d stolen your time, and John cut in, “When did you start working here, Squeak?” 

You moved to clear another table as you answered, “While you were gone.” 

“Why?”

Sherlock pulled an annoyed face, flatly answering for you, “She can’t paint. Stop asking stupid questions, John,” before turning you so you would face him, “I have a painting I need you to look at for the case.”

Your face lit up and then fell, “You know I’d love to, Sherlock, but I can’t… Please, I have to get back to work.”

You moved to greet a new customer and he trailed you like a lost puppy, frowning as he tried to come up with a way to get you to come with him and John. He interrupted your conversation with the couple that had sat down to arrogantly demand, “Quit.”

You went pink, apologetically excusing yourself before grabbing Sherlock arm and tugging him a bit away, “Sherlock, do I have to remind you that I need this job to pay rent?”

Both he and John opened their mouths to respond only to be interrupted by a petite redhead with a soft French accent, “(F/n)… Is everything okay here?”

“She needs the day off,” Sherlock all but demanded and you face-palmed, “Merde. I’m so sorry, Annie. They were just leaving.”

Annie looked at the two men curiously, a smile twitching at her lips as she ignored you to ask, “And why should I give my best server the day off?”

“You don’t-“ John started, trying to salvage the situation with an apologetic glance in your direction, but Sherlock cut him off, “I need her to examine a painting that could help to solve a murder.”

“That sounds serious,” your red-headed friend nodded before giving you a small grin, “Who would I be to keep a murder from being solved.”

Hope filled your eyes as you murmured, “You mean-“

She took your hands up in hers, “Go. You hate working here and frankly, you’re way overqualified… just come in when you can.”

You pulled her into a tight hug and spun her around, “Merci, Merci, Merci, Annie! I’ll make it up to you. Je te promets.”

She let out a tinkling laugh as you set her down and grabbed both Sherlock and John, “Well come on then. Show me this painting.”

Glad to see you happy, Annie just chuckled as you dragged the two of them out, knowing you’d call to tell her all about it later. She had known you for years and, after all that you’d been through, seeing you with that wide grin on your face made her hopeful that you were getting back to your old self.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got really into this case guys... You don't even know. It was so trivial in my head and then all the sudden blam it turned into a really complex interconnected thing. Anyways... the two paintings are actually from the Musee d'Orsay have some links if you'd like:
> 
> [Rouen Cathedral in morning light](http://www.musee-orsay.fr/fr/collections/catalogue-des-oeuvres/resultat-collection.html?no_cache=1&zoom=1&tx_damzoom_pi1%5Bzoom%5D=0&tx_damzoom_pi1%5BxmlId%5D=001289&tx_damzoom_pi1%5Bback%5D=fr%2Fcollections%2Fcatalogue-des-oeuvres%2Fresultat-collection.html%3Fno_cache%3D1%26zsz%3D9)
> 
> [La Seine à Port-Villez](http://www.musee-orsay.fr/en/collections/index-of-works/notice.html?no_cache=1&zoom=1&tx_damzoom_pi1%5Bzoom%5D=0&tx_damzoom_pi1%5BxmlId%5D=021123&tx_damzoom_pi1%5Bback%5D=%2Fen%2Fcollections%2Findex-of-works%2Fnotice.html%3Fno_cache%3D1%26nnumid%3D021123%26cHash%3D0657846b6f)

John couldn’t help but grin as you literally danced into The National Gallery, giving a little twirl before letting out the most content sigh. You were a hard and incredibly devoted worker but he knew you hated that type of work, it made you feel boxed in, bored, and dull. For you, this was not only a moment of excitement but of much-needed freedom as well. Sherlock set a hand on your shoulder to reign you in before you wandered off down some hall and got lost. He got the feeling it would be hours before they found you again if that happened and a grateful look from John confirmed it as you wiggled a little under his hand.

They’d briefed you in the cab on the way over, explaining that they had identified the three people that were murdered as leading art experts all focused in the field of impressionism. Once they had done that, the note left with the bodies made sense and led them to a set of paintings by Monet on loan to The National Gallery by the Musée d'Orsay in Paris that included two newly discovered paintings that had been unveiled just months before. That’s where they were now- one of the five paintings was a fake, it was just a matter of determining which. You had protested to Sherlock that you were hardly an expert, sure Monet was one of your favorite artists and you were a painter but that didn’t mean you’d be able to spot the difference between a fake and the real deal, but for some reason, he insisted you look at them.

Lestrade and the curator looked up when the three of you walked in, your eyes going wide as you looked around the room with a gleeful grin- so much better than being stuck in the café. Sherlock released you and you gave Lestrade a small, distracted wave as you moved past him to stand in front a painting you knew well, ignoring the conversation that had begun behind you. You tilted your head, letting your eyes wander over the pale blues and yellows of one of Monet’s many paintings of Rouen Cathedral, this particular one depicting the soft light of morning. It was one of your favorites. You would need to go over every inch of each painting to be absolutely certain of which was the fake so why not start here?

It had only been a few minutes when you were pulled from your study by raised voices behind you, the curator arguing loudly with Sherlock and Lestrade over your qualifications, or lack thereof, and without turning you snapped, “Either shut it or get the sod out. You’re messing with my concentration.”

They fell silent and you went back to what you were doing before you were so rudely interrupted as John snickered, “I told you she’d notice.”

Time passed slowly for Sherlock and the others as you spent hours in front of each painting, night slowly creeping in while you shifted from painting to painting, sometimes sitting on the floor but mostly just standing. By the time you got to the last two paintings, the curator had left, Lestrade had stepped out to get coffee and stretch his legs, and John was sitting against a wall, napping, next to Sherlock who was deep in thought with his hands folded under his chin.

You gave a soft yawn and stretched your arms above your head as you moved to the last painting, the noise making both of their eyes snap open and Sherlock gestured for John to go get him some coffee. John opened his mouth to tell him to get it himself but Sherlock pressed a finger to his lips, his eyes flicking to you and back as John narrowed his own eyes at him in annoyance. He decided he could use some air anyways and got up to do as Sherlock wanted, leaving the two of you alone in the room. Sherlock went to you, wrapping his arms around your middle and resting his chin on your shoulder causing you to tense slightly but you didn’t push him away.

The last week had been surprisingly hard on Sherlock, even when he was distracted by the case he found himself missing you. At first, it was just that he’d grown used to your presence and it threw him off a little that you were gone but as the week wore on he began to miss little things that he had never really thought about before. The sound of you humming as you made tea, the way your tongue peeked out of your mouth when your sketches got more detailed, the quick sarcastic comments that so easily mingled with his own- he missed it all.

As annoying as it was, he found it interesting that he’d spent his entire life without you and now, after only a week of you being gone, he was miserable. Love was turning out to be a more complex emotion than he’d originally thought.

You suddenly let out a sigh and your hand came up to tangle in his hair as you turned your head to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. He kept his arms around you but stood straight to let you turn and lean into his chest with another soft yawn as he thrummed, “What do you see?”

A wave of disappointment washed over him when you pulled away and moved back to the third painting, The Seine at Port-Villez, standing in front of it for a moment before stating, “The logical choice would have been one of the two new pieces as they would be much easier to duplicate and switch out without someone noticing yet from what I can see there is nothing wrong with either of them. So that leaves the older pieces- I have seen these three works a number of times over the years, enough to know them well, and there’s something about this one that’s off… also, the more I think about it the more it’s the perfect piece for someone to switch out with a fake.”

“Explain.” he murmured as he wound around you from behind again, this time with his cheek against the top of your head.

“It’s well known but not as popular as say… his lily pads, medium sized so not as carefully scrutinized as something smaller or as time-consuming as something bigger, and conservatively worth over ten million on the black market.”

You stepped away from him again, moving so you were just inches from the canvas before giving a soft hum, “This one is a fake and… I know who painted it.”

“You do?” John’s voice rang out behind the two of you as he walked in, just in time to hear your statement but miss the moment of affection from Sherlock, and you spun to nod, “I almost missed it… it’s been a while since I’ve seen one of his paintings, but hidden in one of the trees in a clever shade of muted green is his signature, just two letters-TA for Timothy Ares.”

“Timothy Ares…” Sherlock said the name as if he was trying to deduce something about its owner simply from what he was called and John came over to press a very welcome cup of tea into your hands, “How do you know him, Squeak?”

You plopped down cross-legged on the floor, giving your legs a rest as you sipped at your tea, “He was one of my flatmates when I first moved to Montmartre, we shared a studio for a bit too. You met him when you came to visit once… kind of a lanky bloke with a shock of chestnut hair that flopped over one eye- if memory serves it was flecked with streaks of white when you saw him.”

John was looking to the ceiling in thought and then nodded with a chuckle, “Oh! I remember him… he’s the one who got caught by the authorities in only his pink pants when you broke into that pool in the middle of the night.”

“That would be the one,” you confirmed, giving a little laugh at the memory.

After a moment of thought, you looked up at Sherlock, who was standing with his eyes closed, and firmly stated, “He wouldn’t do this. Not unprovoked. He has great respect for the work of others.”

“Do you still have contact with him?” John wondered aloud.

“I do.”

“Call him.” Sherlock demanded and you shook your head, “I can do you one better. He’s in London. Phoned me two days ago to see if we could meet up but I was busy so he told me where he was staying in case I had some free time.”

Sherlock abruptly stalked out and you and John exchanged a glance, scrambling to catch up with him after he poked his head back in and called, “Don’t laze about.”


	40. Chapter 40

It turned out Timothy was staying in a small house on the outskirts of London, the three of you looking up at it from the sidewalk where the cab had left you. The windows were dark but it was late and he was probably asleep, so you mounted the steps and pressed the bell but got no answer. You looked to Sherlock and he gave a nod so you tried the door and found it unlocked, Sherlock pushing past you so you were safely between him and John as you ventured forth.

Every room was trashed as you moved through them to get a cursory overview of the first floor, going from the front living room to the kitchen, then to a spare bedroom, and finally a small office. Sherlock paused there, something catching his eye so that he crouched to examine a few of the many papers scattered about the floor. You and John exchanged a glance before slipping back into the main room to let him think and you took in the destruction of the room as John wandered into the kitchen. You abruptly had a very clear thought- his studio.

There was no studio space on this floor but there had to be one and, from the size of the house, there had to be two bedrooms upstairs, meaning one of them was more likely than not his workspace. Your thoughts raced as you mounted the stairs; if there was anything here to tell you what had happened or where Timothy might be, it would be in his studio.

Your suspicions were correct. When you got to the top there were two doors across from each other on a corridor -one closed and one open- and from where you were you could see canvases and papers through the open door. You stepped over and through it, shaking your head at the state of the room you had just entered. If possible, it was worse than any of the ones below, likely whoever had done this must have assumed as you did and thought they would find what they wanted here.

There were sketches, paintings, and supplies strewn across the floor and your mind struggled to take it all in, so you closed your eyes and took a breath before opening them to try and focus on just one section. You quickly scanned the room, looking for anything of interest, and something caught your eye: two canvas of roughly the same size thrown haphazardly against one wall. You stepped foreword turning them to face you and gave a small gasp as your mouth twisted into a deep frown.

Both paintings were fantastic and you recognized Timothy’s distinct style but they radiated an almost overbearing sense of darkness and tragedy, his palette dark and muted instead of the brilliant colors he normally worked with. These were the paintings of a troubled soul, something you knew all too well, and you reached out to let your fingertips hover over the surface of one as you murmured, “Oh Timmy… What have you gotten yourself into?”

You were so consumed with your sympathy for your friend as you looked over his work, that you didn’t feel the presence of someone else in the room until it was too late and a hand was clapped over your mouth.

You saw the flash of something metal out of the corner of your eye and instinct kicked in. You stomped down on your attacker’s foot and elbowed him the ribs before spinning to kick the knife out of his hands and quickly shoving your palm up to break his nose. The man choked out, “Bitch,” and rushed you before you could do anything else, pinning you against the wall to hold you off the ground with both hands around your neck in a chokehold. You kicked out but every move just made his grasp on your neck painfully tight and you could feel the darkness starting to creep up on the edges of your vision.

 

Downstairs both Sherlock and John had heard your scuffle, quickly emerging from their respective rooms, and Sherlock’s eyes widened when he saw you weren’t with your brother, “John… (F/n).”

Your brother’s expression grew panicked as he followed Sherlock up the stairs at a run, skidding to a stop at the two closed doors for a moment before, in a last-ditch attempt to do something to save yourself, you smashed your heel into the wall as hard as you could, creating a resounding thud. Sherlock came literally bursting through the door, assessing the situation in a split second before punching the man in the throat so he would drop you and then throwing him so hard against the wall that he was knocked unconscious.

You took a few gasps of precious air, leaning against the wall behind you, before wheezing, “Thank god for your gift of good timing.”

John was already by your side doing the doctor thing but you shoved him away, using the wall behind you to help you stand, “I’m fine… There’s a knife.”

You stumbled in the direction it had gone when you kicked it as John began a fretful rant and Sherlock searched your assailant- giving him a swift kick in the gut for good measure. You had just spotted it, bending to pick it up, when Sherlock grabbed your arm and spun you to face him, catching you off guard when his lips crashed against yours desperately in a relieved and fretful kiss. You returned it only briefly before he pulled away, his fingers grasping your chin and tilting your head so he could get a better look at the hand shaped bruises already patterning your neck.

“You idiot. You could have gotten yourself killed wandering off like that. What have I told you about your observation skills?” he angrily snapped, scrutinizing your injury carefully,

You winced as his fingers brushed against one of the marks on your neck, croaking back, “That you expect me to use them… to be fair I did notice the knife before he could use it and I’m fine. Bruised but fine.” 

He let his hands fall with a dissatisfied frown and you looked down at the knife in your hands, your eyes going wide, “Sherlock.”

He followed your gaze and both of you turned to bolt out the door and towards the one across the hall. John’s jaw had hit the floor when Sherlock kissed you and he stood completely frozen in his spot. He looked like he had short-circuited mid-sentence, unable to process what he’d just witnessed without his head exploding. When you both moved to leave, he quickly recovered, moving to follow you as he furiously demanded, “Where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?” 

“There’s blood on this knife and it’s not mine,” you croaked, trying to get the door across the hall open. Sherlock pulled you away from it, pushing you into John’s arms before giving it a solid kick, breaking the weak lock and sending the door flying open. You were meet with nothing. The room was the only one not completely torn apart, the only sign that something was amiss the blood-soaked sheets of the simple bed in the middle of the room. The knife clattered as it hit the ground, sliding from your hands as you floated towards the bed as if on autopilot. Your fingers hovered over the blood as tears welled up in your eyes, “That’s too much blood. There’s no way…”

You trailed off with a heavy, painful gulp before proceeding to tear the room apart frantically. You could hear the sirens outside that signified Lestrade’s arrival- took him long enough since Sherlock had texted him on the way over. Forgetting about the kiss momentarily, John tried to stop you, knowing that you were grief-stricken from the implied loss of your friend, but Sherlock held him back just as you growled, “This is the only room left untouched and that blood is dry. If he’s not here then they were looking for something and if they haven’t found it yet it has to be in here.”

You tore open the drawer to the nightstand and froze, having a thought and reaching your hand into it and up to the roof of the otherwise empty drawer, a hiding place that he often used when you were flatmates and he didn’t want your other flatmate to find something. A triumphant but tight smile graced your lips as you felt the corner of an envelope taped there, “Oh Timmy, you sly bastard… Somewhere only I’d look.”

You tugged it out to stare at it, your fingers shakily tracing your initials on the front of it before Sherlock gently pulled it from your hands.


	41. Chapter 41

You let Sherlock take the envelope as John pulled you into his arms comfortingly, feeling yourself beginning to go numb from everything that had happened while Sherlock’s eyes scanned the letter. Lestrade burst through the door and the consulting detective waved a hand at him before he could say anything, “Other room. Get him out of my sight before he ‘falls’ again.”

The man didn’t question it, going to remove your attacker with a sigh, and Sherlock pursed his lips at the note. He couldn’t make any sense of it, it seemed to just be a regular letter with the occasional drawing, but he knew there had to be something to it, turning to offer it to you, “(F/n)… What do you see?”

You took it from him, quickly reading it over before softly breathing, “It’s a confession…

Pulling away from John’s arms, you continued in a hoarse yet firm voice, “If you pair the second-to-last sentence before each break to the drawing below it, the combination creates a new idea- it was a game a few of us used to play when there was nothing else to do and we wanted to challenge each other. ‘It’s been killing me that we haven’t seen each other in so long, it’s positively criminal!’ is paired with the three people below drinking tea as they discuss something- art history by the spine of the book one is holding. It means he killed the experts because they did something criminal… from the next few pairs they were probably the ones that falsely authenticated his fake.”

You paused to look at the next page of the note, tilting your head as you deciphered the next bit with a frown, “He owed a favor to someone powerful and they forced him to make the fake,” your voice dropped to a barely above a raspy whisper as you continued, “And then the guilt drove him mad. That explains the paintings in the other room…”

You got to the last set of sentences and the accompanying drawing, tracing your fingers over it before turning to go into the other room again. You pushed past Anderson and Donavan who were surveying the scene as Lestrade and a couple others lugged the unconscious man out, “This last one… ‘Do you remember how we used to lie on the roof and look up at the stars?’ with the drawing of a window…”

You stared at the drawing for a minute as Anderson sarcastically snickered behind you, “Figures she’d be crazy like her brother and a freak like Sherlock. The world sooo needed a combination of the two.”

“Yeah. You really dodged a bullet there,” Donavan hurled a little bitterly as the pair smirked at each other.

You turned to glare at them, fully intending to tell them off, but Sherlock simply slammed the door in their faces before turning back to you and giving a little nod for you to continue. You silently asked if you could punch them later and he gave a slight smirk but shook his head, John watching the little interaction with narrowed eyes as he worked his jaw.

“A window…This window.” You pointed to it and then shoved the note into John’s hands as you turned to grab a toppled stepladder. Sherlock had come to the same conclusion and was already holding it out to you and John stopped you as you set it next to the window, “Squeak… are you sure you want to be climbing that? You’ve just had a shock to your system, your balance-“

You shook your head, “I’ll be ok, Johnny,” and stepped onto it to move to the top, the boys below holding their breath as you wobbled slightly before reaching your hands up towards the ceiling only to find you were too short. You felt a hand on your hip and twisted to find Sherlock looking up at you, stretching his arms out to you as he offered, “I’m taller.”

“There you go stating the obvious again,” you teased, flashing him a smile as you raised an eyebrow, and his lips twitched upwards in an almost undetectable smirk. John was not at all happy about this… this… flirting. Is that was it was? He didn’t think Sherlock capable of flirting but you certainly were… He had to stop thinking about it as his head started to spin again.

Accepting his offer to help you down, you bent to wrap your arms around Sherlock’s neck and he tugged you tightly to his chest as he pulled you away from the ladder before gently setting you on the ground below. As soon as your feet hit the ground, John pried the two of you apart, glaring daggers at Sherlock as he tucked you behind him. Shooting the consulting detective an apologetic glance as he stepped up the ladder, you mumbled, “Thank you, Sherlock.”

You and John watched as Sherlock’s hand felt the ceiling until he found a loose panel, pushing it up and then pulling it down to reveal a thick book attached to the back of it. He hopped down and removed it from the panel, running his hands over it curiously before flipping it open. You stepped forward to make sure he held it in both hands as you explained, “Careful, Timmy and I share the habit of tucking things in our sketchbooks and if you drop something in this mess, we’ll never find it.”

He nodded in acknowledgment and turned his attention back to the sketchbook, finding that it was similar to yours and yet very different- there were sketches of an array of different things but more notes, almost like an illustrated journal, and every few pages there was some sort of loose paper tucked away. The first hint that something was wrong was a page that simply read ‘Was it worth it?’ with a slip that said I. O. U. Next, he came to some notes on the Monet and his process of creating it with a sketch of how to determine that it was a fake. Tucked in between the next pages were pictures of both paintings and an illustration of how they made the switch.

After that, it didn’t take him long to get to pages where the text turned crazed and shortly after that some very detailed sketches of the art experts both before and after they were murdered. Those segued into page after page of bloody paint-covered hands, rather like Lady Macbeth trying to wash the imaginary blood from her hands, the guilt slowly consuming him. The last page was just text that read, ‘I’m being hunted for what I’ve done. Hopefully, I’ve left enough for someone to figure it out. I’m so sorry. I should have never done business with Moriarty.’

Sherlock snapped it shut as John got a worried look on his face and you tilted your head, “Who’s Moriarty?”

They both looked at you with frowns before exchanging a glance and then John offered, “That’s something we can talk about later, Squeak.”

You felt like a child being kept in the dark by overbearing parents but didn’t push it and obediently trailed along behind them as they went to look for Lestrade, finding him talking with one of his forensics team. The first thing he noticed was your bruises, leaning in to look at them as he waved over a paramedic, “Christ! What the hell happened in there?” 

Offering him a weak grin, you simply supplied, “A lot,” and John grumbled, “That’s an understatement.”

They reluctantly let you go with a paramedic to take pictures for evidence and give a statement while they wrapped things up with Lestrade, handing over the sketchbook and note before coming to find you.

The cab ride home was the quietest ever and the air was tense as John shot a steady death glare at Sherlock, Sherlock studied you with concern, and you ignored them both to look pensively out the window. They were both fretting over you and you knew it, you’d just been strangled and lost an old friend- how could they not worry- but you were too numb to think about them or any of it. It felt like you could sleep for a decade.

Knowing you had to do something to keep them from tearing each other apart when you got back, you turned to them for a moment to quietly plead, “Can we please just get some rest and discuss everything in the morning? It’s been a long day.”

Sherlock nodded and John took your hand up in his, giving you a sympathetic smile, “Of course, Squeak.”

You sighed and looked back out the window- tomorrow was going to be a very long day.


	42. Chapter 42

You passed out on your couch within minutes of getting home, pausing only to pull off your shoes and your white button down so you were left in a tight white tank top and your black trousers that were two sizes too big. Upstairs, John refused to speak to Sherlock, worried that he would start yelling and end up waking you, and quickly went to bed himself, leaving Sherlock to flop down on the couch to think, he could sleep later.

He certainly had a lot to think about given everything that had happened and started with the most trivial to him: the fact that Moriarty’s name had come up. This wouldn’t be the first time it had but, since the pool incident, his presence had been suspiciously lacking. Still, it wasn’t surprising that he’d been behind the stolen Monet, unfortunate as it was that his pawn had been connected to you.

That brought him to his next problem on his list- your friend. There was no way Timothy could have survived after that much blood loss- a fact that upset you. He knew that social protocol in this situation would be to comfort you but the idea of that made him uncomfortable, it was too touchy-feely for him. That being said, he still wanted to try in some capacity since seeing you sullen and sad not only bothered him, but it was a distraction for you from things that needed your attention. He’d have to come up with some way to cheer you up or comfort you that didn’t involve all the touchy-feely stuff- he could leave all of that… unpleasant part of it to John.

He moved on to the next problem on his scale of increasing importance- himself. He was beginning to feel conflicted about whether he should continue his experiment with love.

On the one hand, he had been more or less right in his original conclusion about it being a weakness- he was miserable when you were gone, willing to put himself in danger for your well being, and so annoyingly fretful. It was only a matter of time before it started to interfere with his work and he could not have that. Not to mention the fact that his subconscious need for contact with you was getting demandingly strong and slightly unpredictable. In addition, there was the way he’d felt so empty both times you’d left his slightly awkward embrace in the Gallery and then the kiss… He hadn’t actually intended to kiss you in front of John but as soon as he came in contact with you, it was like he had needed to do it- like there was no other option. He never wanted to see you hurt again.

Then, on the other hand, there was the blissful high that he got from just being around you. Being around you alone almost entirely canceled out all the weaknesses as the benefits brought a great deal of strength to the table. Your intellect and skill set perfectly paired with his, making you the ideal partner on cases. You could tell what he was thinking just by looking at him and vice versa, allowing for efficient communication, and everything about you was intriguing, which kept his mind busy. On top of all that, you made him happy- usually only cases made him happy. The physical contact, as annoyingly unintended as it sometimes was, could send him to a high that he previously only thought possible from things like cigarettes and drugs.

Thinking over his options, he decided that he would continue. He was the great Sherlock Holmes after all and he finished what he started no matter what… besides even entertaining the idea that he part himself from you made him feel sick to his stomach.

With that settled, he came to his two most pressing problems- John and Mycroft. They were equally worrisome. He needed to know what Mycroft wanted with you. The theories in his head were not good, including that he was interested in you himself, he was plotting to meddle in order to keep him concentrated on cases and weakness free, or he wanted something from you. It was something he was going to have to do some more looking in to.

And then there was John.

It was painfully obvious that he was not happy with the whole thing. He was protective of you, for good reason after what had happened to you before, and Sherlock was aware he wasn’t the ideal candidate to be with you romantically. The more he thought about it, the messier it got, and he finally decided just to do as you’d asked and deal with it in the morning, meaning now he could finally get some rest.

You woke up the next morning to roll off the couch and groggily grabbed a box of cereal before opening your fridge to find it empty. You were supposed to go to the grocery on your way home from work yesterday, something that clearly never happened. Trudging up the stairs with your cereal under one arm and bowl and spoon in hand, you knocked on your brother’s door. John opened it in a matter of seconds and you gave him a sheepish, slightly groggy grin, “I don’t have any milk.”

He completely ignored your words, eyes going wide before he grabbed your arm and pulled you inside where the light was better.

“Bloody hell, (F/n). Your neck… it’s worse than I thought,” he worried, tilting your head from side to side so he could fully see your bruises before stating firmly, “You are going to take something for the pain and the swelling. No arguments.”

You pouted at him even though you knew he wasn’t going to change his mind and then let out a raspy sigh, “Can I at least have my cereal first?”

He smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple, “Yes, of course, you can. Come on, I’ll get you some milk.”

Yawning, you followed him to the kitchen, got your milk, and ate your cereal leaning against the counter while he looked you over with a frown. Your hair was messy from sleep, your black bra showed through your tight, white tank top, and your pants were only barely clinging to your hips, leaving a small section of bare skin between the two articles of clothing. He pursed his lips about to tell you to go change when Sherlock shuffled in, ruffling a hand through his hair, and you gave him a small grin, “Mornin’ Sherly.”

Still not fully awake, He blinked at you a couple of times, taking in your appearance, and then went the slightest shade of pink before grumbling, “Morning,” as he leaned over you to get a mug from the cabinet above your head. He groped for the blue mug but it wasn’t where he normally put it and his pause made you tilt your chin back to look up at him, “Try the second shelf. John probably cleaned it.”

After shooting a glare in John’s general direction, he offered you a small smile, pulling it down when he found it where you’d said. He let his free hand fall to your hip to gently push you out of the way of the stove, his thumb lightly stroking at the bare skin there before moving away to continue with his tea. Neither of you noticed that John had gone a very interesting shade of red until he yanked his knit jumper over his head and shoved Sherlock toward the door as he tossed it at you, “You- out and you- put that on.”

“But, John- my tea.”

You tugged your brother’s jumper over your head happily. You liked his jumpers and it smelled like him so it wasn’t really a bad thing in your book, and then offered, “I’ll make you some, Sherlock.”

“No, you most certainly will not,” your brother spun to seethe at you.

You held up your hands in defense as you shrugged and John gave Sherlock another shove towards the living room, making him leave before he turned back to you, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Well, I was eating cereal but-“

“Don’t start with me, (F/n). I’m not in the mood.”

You sighed, “I don’t know… it just sort of happened.”

He narrowed his eyes at you and you hurriedly added, “I swear I didn’t intend for it happen, John. I don’t even really know what it is… I mean it’s nice but I think he’s more curious than anything else and-”

This had the opposite effect of what you’d intended. John spun on his heel and went out to the living room, Sherlock moving to stand as he walked in to yell at him, “You’re curious?! You bastardly twat! That’s my baby sister! You couldn’t have found someone else to mess around with just to figure things out? You know what she’s been through! The last thing she needs is to be toyed with by someone who doesn’t love her.”

He was absolutely livid at this point but Sherlock was calm, “It was an experiment, John, but-“

A fist connecting with the side of his jaw cut off the thought and he stumbled back as John shouted, “My sister is not an experiment, Sherlock. She’s a human being with feelings. Not that you’d know much about that, you sociopathic machine!”


	43. Chapter 43

They began to argue loudly- well… it was more Sherlock trying to get a word in as John shouted abuse at him- and after the initial shock wore off you moved to try and put an end to it. You were met with little success, tugging at your brother’s arm only to have him shake you off before your own temper flared and you demanded, “I’m an adult, John. I can make my own decisions.”

He spun to bellow at you, “Obviously not. The last decision you made landed you with a man who almost killed you and now this… this… arrogant arsehole who doesn’t even believe he has a heart. I would say your judgment is not to be trusted.”

You gaped at him for a second and then yelled back, “My mistakes are my own and I deal with them as such. After what I’ve been through, do you honestly think I would have let whatever this is continue if I hadn’t thought it through? If I didn’t trust him? You can’t just start making decisions for me because I messed up in the past. It’s my life!”

Sherlock began to add to what you’d said but John cut him off to start in on him again and then it was all three of you yelling at each other with you waving your hands angrily and John starting to pace. This was getting all of you absolutely nowhere and in a moment of clarity you decided it had to end. Trying to reign in your temper before things got out of hand, you took a few deep breaths while John continued to yell at Sherlock, and then moved to stand between them.

There was no possible way you could have had worse timing as just as you did so John spun to grab the front of Sherlock’s shirt, not knowing you were there since his back had been turned, and his hand smashed roughly into your cheek. He went wide-eyed when he realized what had happened, floundering like a fish as your eyes filled with tears and your fingers came up to press at your rapidly reddening cheek, “Oh God- Squeak, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean-“

He stopped short when you shied away as he reached for you, unable to hide the look of fear that crossed your face as memories triggered by the pain flooded your mind. If looks could kill Sherlock’s would have done so ten times over as he shoved John away from you and then tucked you protectively to his chest, spinning so his back was to John as his hands rubbed awkwardly down your back. You shook slightly as he tried his best soothe you, “It’s alright (F/n). No one is going to hurt you. John didn’t mean for that to happen… I promise you’re safe.”

You buried you nose in his chest and took a few deep breaths to calm yourself and keep for crying before pulling away slightly to look up at his frown, his fingers coming up to gently graze the red mark on your cheek, this was the second time you’d gotten hurt because of him in less than a day. As if reading his mind, you brought a hand up to take his in yours, squeezing it tightly as you murmured, “It’s ok, Sherlock. It’s not your fault.”

John watched the two of you closely, surprised by Sherlock’s behavior, even if it was awkward and slightly hesitant, and once you’d let go of Sherlock’s hand, you spun to throw your arms around his neck, whispering, “I know you didn’t mean it Johnny. I just needed a minute.”

He hugged you back tightly, wishing so strongly that he could just turn back time to stop it from happening, to erase your look of fear directed at him from his mind, “I’m so sorry (F/n)- for everything. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

You wove your fingers through his hair comfortingly as you shushed him, “I know John. I know.”

He pulled away to look at your cheek worriedly and you knew he wasn’t going to let it go that easily, sighing before trying to bring him back to the topic at hand, “Can we please talk like civilized human beings? Yelling isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock hummed from behind you and John shot him a glare before looking back at you with pursed lips, “Is this really what you want (F/n)?”

You let out an exasperated huff, reaching forward to straighten the front of his hair, “I don’t know Johnny... I’m still trying to figure things out myself.”

His face fell into a dissatisfied and slightly angry pout as he grumbled, “Fine… I don’t approve but I guess I can tolerate it- as long as he treats you right.”

Letting out a soft chuckle, you patted his cheek, “That’s all I could ever ask of my big brother.”

He shot another glare at Sherlock, “If he doesn’t I reserve the right to punch his face in.”

“I can live with that,” you hummed before moving past him toward the kitchen, “I’m going to go finish my cereal now.”

John crossed him arms over his chest as he scrutinized Sherlock for a moment and then stuck a finger in his face to say, “Don’t you ever call my sister an experiment again,” before spinning to follow you into the kitchen.

Sherlock smirked, aside from the mishap with you, that had gone better than he’d thought it would. He made a mental note not to refer to his experiment as an experiment out loud for the sake of John’s continued happiness and then sank down in his chair to think while he let both of you calm down.

Waiting for the kettle, John quirked an eyebrow at you as you tugged your pants up further on your hips with a small frustrated growl before rinsing out your bowl, “Why don’t you get rid those trousers? They’re obviously too big.”

“They’re the only black trousers I have. I need them for work.”

“What happened to the ones from the pant suit Harry bought you for your gallery opening? They were black and fit you well.”

You rubbed the back of your neck awkwardly, avoiding his gaze, “These are them. I’ve lost a bit of weight in the past couple of years.”

He looked you over in surprise, you didn’t look unhealthy so he hadn’t really noticed that you were relatively thin and when he began to think of reasons why he grimaced. He tried to change the topic, seeing that you were now fidgeting with the things on the counter uncomfortably, “Your friend Annie seemed nice. It was kind of her to let you leave with us.”

You gave a small smile, “She’s always been that way. I’m lucky to have her as a friend, if she hadn’t saved my hide by giving me a job I wouldn’t be able to pay rent next month... I feel bad for skipping out on her after all that even if it was fun.”

He frowned at you, “What’s going on with you Squeak? You shouldn’t be struggling to pay rent. What happened to the money you got from selling your paintings? I know they fetch quite a bit… you can’t have spent it all.”

Chewing at your lip, you shook your head, “It’s gone, John. Can we please just leave it at that?”

Sherlock came in to see if he could finally get some tea at that exact moment, grabbing the kettle before John could kick him out again as he offered, “Her ex-boyfriend made her donate everything except for the savings account he didn’t know about. Being vague makes him assume the worst (F/n). It’s best if you just tell him.”

You went red, taking his mug from him to finish making his tea in an attempt to distract yourself from the situation, and John pursed his lips as a thought ran through his head, “When was the last time you bought groceries (F/n)?”

“Last week… I was supposed to go yesterday but as you know I was rather busy.”

Just as you handed Sherlock his tea, John grabbed your shoulders and steered you out to the door, “Go change. I’m taking you shopping.”

“You don’t have to-“

“Yes I do. I’m not going to have my little sister running around in trousers that barely stay on only to come home to an empty pantry. The clinic pays fairly well… besides I think some proper sibling bonding is long overdue.”

You opened your mouth to protest but he leveled you with that look from when you were kids that told you he’d made up his mind and he wasn’t going to change it, so you sighed and gave a small nod, “Fine- Just milk and a new pair of pants for work. Nothing more.”

John fully intended for there to be more but nodded anyways, shooing you out the door before going to get ready himself. He was still feeling guilty over hitting you, even if it was an accident, not to mention the fact he hadn’t noticed all the stuff that was going on in your life that he should have been concerned about. He was going to make it up to you somehow.

It turned out to be a pretty productive trip with Sherlock’s texts only interrupting thrice and John getting the answers to the many questions he had for you like your painting issues and what you and Mycroft talked about. He steered clear of the topic of Timothy, noticing that you’d start to look sad when you thought he wasn’t looking. He knew you’d have to deal with it eventually but for right now he was going to just let you be- when you wanted to talk about it you would. Other than that, every question he asked you answered without holding back, even if you got uncomfortable, sharing everything with him like you always did. Laughing with you and talking through both his problems and yours, John couldn’t help but think how much he’d missed that.


	44. Chapter 44

With your voice what it was, you took a few days to recover and you spent that time avoiding Sherlock to appease John as you coped with all the emotions that had come up. It wasn’t hard, Sherlock was focused on the case and both he and John speculated about the involvement of whoever this Moriarty person was in hushed whispers when you were out of earshot. At this point, you didn’t have the energy to be curious and instead let them be, opting to spend the time drawing by the window or down in your flat. Days seemed to meld into each other and before you knew it, John was tentatively approving you to go back to a somewhat normal schedule.

At the end of the week, you went back to work intending to make up for the missed time to Annie by working the entire day without pay and found that, as usual, Mycroft came in and sat in your section. You could feel him looking you over as you moved to finish serving a couple of other patrons before coming over to greet him, “Bonjour, Monsieur Holmes. How may I help you today?”

He gave you a soft smile, “Just tea for me today, (F/n)… You know you can drop the formalities. It is good to see you back. Your injuries are healing well I take it?”

You gave him a wide grin, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Yes, quite well and I know, Mycroft. I just enjoy greeting you that way so very much. I’ll be right back.”

He chuckled softly, watching you skip away to get what he’d requested of you. You got someone to cover the rest of your section before returning to sit down across from him as he noted, “You look nice today. I see you’ve been shopping.”

You blushed lightly with a nod, “John insisted I get a work outfit that fit me properly.”

You felt pretty today, funny how a change of clothes could do that. You were wearing the same simple outfit as before, a white button down and black trousers, but your pants now hugged your waist nicely and the button down had a more feminine v-neck then the one you had had before. You’d also gotten a little fancy with your hair and covered the bruises on your neck expertly.

You had only been chatting with Mycroft for a few minutes, mostly about the case, when Sherlock walked through the door looking for you. You gave him a little wave, motioning that he should come over, and he did, glaring daggers at Mycroft the entire way. You greeted him warmly, “Bonjour, Sherlock, What are you doing here?”

Mycroft smirked at him, “Yes, little brother, what are you doing here?”

He narrowed his eyes at his brother suspiciously as he flatly stated, “I could ask you the same thing,” and then turned to you, his expression softening, “I need to speak to you alone for a moment.”

You tilted your head at him and then looked to Mycroft politely, “Would you mind, Mycroft? My break is nearly over as it is.”

He shook his head, “Go, my dear, he will behave like a child for the rest of the day otherwise.”

You let out a soft giggle, making Sherlock’s fists clench, “That is very true. Shall I see you tomorrow?”

He gave a small nod, “You shall. Goodbye, (F/n).”

Fed up with the situation, Sherlock pulled you away as you called, “Au revoir, Monsieur Holmes.”

You let him lead you to the other side of the café, as far away from Mycroft as possible, and slid in across from him when he picked a cozy booth, “What’s up, Sherly? I hope you aren’t going to make it a habit of showing up at my work simply because you’re bored.”

“You don’t seem to mind when Mycroft does it,” he stated flatly, pursing his lips unhappily.

Your lips twitched up in a smile as you teased, “My, my, is the great Sherlock Holmes jealous?”

He didn’t respond, working his jaw slightly, and you brushed your hand across his knee, making his eyes snap to you curiously, “Sherlock, I have no interest in your brother, certainly you can see that. Not to mention the fact that he hardly has any interest in me either. If anything, we are friends and even that is a stretch. He acts the way he does when you are around because he knows it bothers you.”

He was still pouting and you sighed, getting up to sit next to him and cautiously lean your head on his shoulder, “You may come to visit me every day if you’d like. I would gladly give up my time with Mycroft for time with you… but I warn you it’s pretty boring. Now would you please tell me why you’re here before I have to get back to work?”

He seemed satisfied with this, as well as your little display of affection, and a hesitant expression crossed his face before he leaned his head lightly on yours, murmuring, “I brought you something.”

You pulled away from his shoulder to look up at him in confusion and he reached into his jacket, producing a new set of art pens and a single teal daisy before hurriedly shoving them into your hands. You let out a surprised giggle, putting the daisy behind your ear as you ran your hands over the pens, and then looked up at him with a questioning frown, “W-Why? You don’t have to buy me things just because John said to treat me right…”

He tucked the daisy more securely behind your ear, letting his fingers stroke down the curve of it as his thumb traced along your cheekbone, and softly explained, “I couldn’t help but notice your pens were running low and I knew you were planning on replacing them when you had enough money, but based on the amount you draw, the fact that the final two you have left from your old set are both running low on ink, and your average weekly wages… you were going to run out long before you could afford them. I’ve saved you from having to wait.”

Your breath caught softly as the skin under his fingers warmed, a fact that he noted as it made his heart flip. You flashed him a giddy grin before leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek, “Thank you, Sherlock. I really appreciate it.”

He was glad to see you genuinely happy, hoping that it could distract you from the sadness he noticed in your eyes, and let a tiny smile tug at his lips despite rolling his eyes at your little public display of affection. In truth, it had been the only way he could think of to improve your mood that didn’t involve an overt touchy-feely type moment and he could write it off in his mind as a practical gift for both him and you in that he could avoid the feelings as well as your inevitable annoyance at running out of pens. Your phone buzzed, notifying you that your break was over and you needed to get back to work, and you sighed, “I have to go… Would you like me to get you anything? Coffee? Or maybe a biscuit?”

He had watched your expression go from happy to flat and almost dejected and didn’t like it one bit, catching your wrist as you got up to straighten your apron, “Come home with me.”

You tilted your head at him as you frowned, “I can’t, Sherlock. I already skipped out on Annie last time I worked.”

“I need you for an experiment.”

You rolled your eyes, “Can you get John to do it? Just don’t tell him what you’re doing. By the time he realizes-“

“It needs to be you.”

You sighed, trying to hide the excitement over what it could possibly be that was bubbling up inside you, and firmly tried again, “Sherlock, I can’t. I’d be happy to when I get home but for now, you’ll have to wait. I’ll bring you some tea and a croissant.”

He made a small face but nodded, watching you leave the table to get it for him, and then locked eyes with Mycroft across the room. His eyes narrowed when his brother gave him an amused look with a teasingly raised brow as if to say ‘I saw all that just now’ and he was about to retaliate when you returned with his tea.

“Stop allowing him to antagonize you, Sherlock,” you hummed softly, setting it in front of him, “Enjoy your tea and then go home. I’m sure there is some way you can annoy John for entertainment until I’m finished.”

“I’ll wait here.”

You blinked a few times, processing that, “Are you-”

“I am perfectly capable of waiting, (F/n). Don’t ask pointless questions.”

You rolled your eyes and went back to your work, glancing at him occasionally, and after about an hour, it because very clear that he was not, in fact, capable of waiting. He was certainly trying… but failing, rather like a cat that wanted attention. When he ‘accidentally’ spilled the small bowl of sugar cubes you’d brought for his tea across the table and the adjacent floor with a small crash, you came to clean it with a hiss, “Quit making a mess and go home.”

“Only if you come with me,” he insisted and you gave up, “Fine. I will go ask Annie if I can leave… again.”

He gave a smug smirk as you swished off to find Annie and came back with her trailing you, a look of guarded curiosity on her face. She offered him a small smile, “May I ask why exactly you need (F/n) to come home with you?”

Deducing a number of things from her in a blink, he decided to answer honestly, “I intend to conduct an experiment that will allow her to begin painting again.”

You gaped at him for a moment, “That’s what this is about? I’ve given up, Sherlock! I can’t dwell on something that’s never going to happen again.”

Both he and Annie ignored your protest and she gave him a small approving grin, “For that, Monsieur Holmes, you may have her. I wish you success.”


	45. Chapter 45

You sat in your chair with your arms folded over your chest, watching Sherlock set up your easel since you had refused to when he’d dragged you back to the flat. You figured that he had to be terribly bored to think this was a good idea but you had to give it to him- he was really determined. You watched him struggle with it a bit, taking just a little bit of pleasure in it, before the knobs relented and the wood pieces started to slide into place. He finished and came to pull you out of the chair with both hands, “Go change.”

You sighed and got up to do as he asked just to get away from him for a moment, pulling on a loose pair of paint covered jeans and a purple tank top that you’d already ruined, leaving your feet bare. After refixing your hair into a ponytail to keep it out of the way and removing your makeup, you ventured out into the living room again and found that Sherlock had gone to get his violin from upstairs and was now sitting in your chair with it in his hand. He waited patiently, eyes following you while you found the brushes you wanted, set up a decent palette, and filled a water cup- anything to delay the inevitable- until finally there was nothing more to do. When you let out a heavy sigh and slumped down on your stool, he began to play.

You closed your eyes just to listen for a minute, letting the music guide you to what to paint, and then began to mix colors and hesitantly spread them across the canvas. Despite your initial reluctance, feeling the brush against canvas again felt like the life was being breathed back into you, like all those hours of dull work were fading away and your imagination could run free again without a care in the world. You quickly found that you could fall back into the familiar experience- your brush moving as it used to and the usual sense of calm that came over you enveloping you completely. You welcomed it, breathing in deeply as your mind followed the music, and for once, it seemed you could truly forget.

Over the next few hours, Sherlock would periodically stop playing, both to rest and to see how long it took you to lose whatever rhythm you had and begin to fall into the gray. He would sit quietly, watching your brush strokes, and as soon as your hand started to shake, he would begin to play again, noting that each time he stopped, it took longer for that to happen, even if it was just a minute more. He could count this experiment as a tentative success… now he just had to figure out how to keep you painting even when he wasn’t around to play for you.

Contrary to what you thought, he hadn’t come up with this scenario on a whim. A number of things had fallen into place to lead up to this moment, beginning with your initial admission that his playing had been helpful with the addition of how tedious he found it to have you unavailable and ending with John’s ‘tolerance’ of his experimental connection to you. In that time, he’d formulated this little experiment as the beginning to something much larger and, given the success he’d had, he felt now it was time to enact his plan. It was dark out when he stopped again and this time got up to try a different approach.

You’d shifted to standing about an hour earlier and when he came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, you tensed, “Sherlock… What are you doing?”

He just hummed, “Keep painting,” in your ear and rested his chin on your shoulder. You did as he asked and he shifted to nuzzle his nose ever so lightly into the sensitive skin of your neck, making you shiver a little. He stayed close, letting you get comfortable with him being there so that you found your rhythm with the brush again, and then lightly kissed behind your ear, just a soft brush of his lips against the area to see how you would respond. When you didn’t falter in your painting, he got a bit more bold, pressing open mouth kisses along your neck down to your shoulder. You couldn’t ignore that, unable to stop yourself from tilting your head to press your neck into him as you breath caught in your throat and your pulse raced beneath his lips. He pressed a kiss to your earlobe and you could feel his lips were pulled into a smirk as he commanded in a deep hum, “Paint.”

Letting out a shaky sigh, you went back to your work as he left featherlight kisses on the choke bruises before pulling back a little to kiss the nape of your neck as he shifted to the other side. Not an inch of your bruised skin was left unattended to as if he was attempting to erase the marks with gentle affection. You appreciated it, tilting your head slightly again to press your neck a little closer without losing your focus on the painting developing in front of you.

This went on for a few more minutes, with you trying your best to keep your focus on your work while his lips explored your neck and shoulder, before he returned to a particular spot, one at the crook of your neck just below your bruise. In his first pass over your skin, you had given a soft moan when he’d brushed his lips over it in a light kiss, the noise marking its location in his mind as his own heart quickened its pace. His lips fell on the spot a bit more firmly, teeth lightly grazing along it, and when you took in a sharp breath of air, he bit down on it, sucking softly. The brush slipped from your fingers as you gasped out a moan and your knees went a little weak, hand going right into your wet painting in an attempt to steady yourself, “S-Sherlock… What are you d-doing?”

He responded by pulling you back more securely into him, nipping lightly at your ear. Your paint covered hand quickly came up to tangle in his hair as you breathed out a small pleased noise, spreading paint across the dark canvas of his silky locks. His hands began to wander over your side and hips as he worked his way back down to the spot he’d discovered, licking softly at the start of a mark he’d left there before returning to the task. You groaned, the hand not wound in his hair very quickly pressed into your painting for support without a single care that you were ruining the work you’d just done.

He hummed softly, his breathing against your skin becoming a little shorter and heavy as he breathed you in, reveling in the unique scent that was all your own. The moment your fingers had hit his hair he’d lost the calculated control over his actions and his need to discover every inch of you, to memorize it, and to store it away in his brain, took over completely. He took note of every sound that escaped you, every shiver at his touch, every shift of your body towards his for more. The experience was new to him but he was a quick study and he wanted desperately to make you sing for him like a well-played violin.

His fingers found the edges of your tank top, pushing it up with the aim to get it off and away and you whined when he pulled away from you to lift it over your head. Taking the opportunity to turn to face him, you took his face in your hands, smearing paint across his cheeks and neck as you pulled him down to capture his lips with yours. He let out the most sonorous sound you’d ever heard into your lips, clearly pleased with the change, and wrapped an arm around the small of your back so he could lean into you, dipping you back a little in his desperation to get closer. In an instant, he was adding his own handprint to your painting as he searched for something to keep himself from tumbling forward, refusing to leave your lips for even a moment to seek better balance.

You slid your fingers down along his shoulders and then gripped the front of his shirt, tugging slightly to make it clear you wanted it gone. Your lips slipped from his a moment later, pulling in small gasping breaths as you focused on ridding him of it, fingers tortuously slow as they moved to unbutton its front. Sherlock didn’t waste the time and straightened a little to admire you, tracing the contours of your collarbone and back with his paint-covered fingers in an attempt to memorize the feel of every inch of your skin. He bent to steal a lingering kiss from you just as you shoved his shirt away from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor as your hands trailed down his chest, your lips curling into a wicked grin before you reached to dip your fingers into your palette. His breath came in soft pants as he huskily thrummed, “What are you-“

He cut himself off with a sharp intake of air as you gently spread the paint across his chest and purred, “You said paint but you never said where. Stand still.”

His hands fell to your hips automatically as your fingers danced over his chest, every touch sending shivers down his spine and drawing out the occasional deep moan. He watched your face, realizing after a moment you knew you were teasing him and you had no intention of stopping. He was putty in your hands and he found that he didn’t mind in the slightest, the new sensation of your fingers against his skin and the cool feel of the paint overwhelming his senses. All too soon, you finished, pressing a handprint next to your work in a sort of signature, and then looked up at him through your lashes with a soft smile, murmuring, “A heart for the blind who cannot see that you already have one.”

He gave a small startled chuckle, looking down at the anatomically correct heart you’d traced above where his actual heart pounded rapidly before taking hold of your cheeks to press a succession of wanton kisses to your lips. Just when he thought he had you figured out, you went and surprised him again and while normally he found it frustrating, at this moment it made his heart soar to heights he hadn’t thought possible.


	46. Chapter 46

Warning: 18+ THIS IS A LEMON. Please skip if you are not comfortable, prefer not to read, or are not of age. Again if this isn’t your scene please just skip. There are no important plot points here.

After basking in the feeling for a moment, Sherlock’s lips strayed along your jawline in the same soft kisses as before, brushing along your skin lightly in between soft, warm panting breaths. His fingers slid from your cheeks and trailed down to hesitantly trace the edge of your bra in a silent request for permission to explore the soft flesh underneath. You quietly hummed an approval as your eyes fluttered closed, knowing he would understand, and his fingers followed the band to the clasp. He struggled with it a bit and you only barely stifled a giggle, abruptly realizing he’d probably never done anything like this before. The clasp ultimately relented to his deft fingers and the fabric loosened as you let out a soft hum, the straps starting to slide down your shoulders. He suddenly paused, lips just below your ear, “Are you-”

“Yes.”

“May I-”

You let out a whine, patience for his sudden hesitation almost nonexistent, “Obviously.”

He chuckled, the deep rumbling noise of it sending a pang of need through you as his lips returned to their previous task and his fingers tugged your bra entirely away from your body. You slid your hands up his arms, one finding his cheek as the other tangled into his hair, pulling him gently back to your lips in a deep, encouraging kiss. You wanted him focused on the moment and it seemed the best way to do that was to distract his mind with physical contact and appeal to his more primal instincts

Once he seemed caught up in the kiss, your hands dropped to take his, squeezing softly before moving them back to your heated skin just over your rapidly beating heart. He got the hint and eagerly found the now bare skin of your breasts under his fingertips in soft strokes, exploring the new territory with careful curiosity. He caught your lips in short kisses between heavy pants, just barely parting from you for air as he made note of your reactions to every experimental touch- how your breath caught in your throat when the pad of his thumb dragged lightly over the raised peak of your nipple, the soft hum when he cupped one breast and gave it a gentle squeeze, the way you shifted on your feet to rub your thighs together with a small whine.

When his fingers brushed lower, against the underside of your breast, you tensed and pulled away from him to take his hands in yours. You knew from the look on his face he was trying to read you but didn’t give him the chance, placing a hand on his heart and pushing lightly so he stepped back into the wall. His shoulders hit it and before he could fully process anything you caught his lips again, pressing yourself against him on tiptoes. The soft groan that left him was like music to your ears, your lips slipping from his as your palm found the apparent bulge in his trousers and caused his balance to falter. You let out a breathless giggle when he slumped a bit against the wall, his face shifting more to your height, and then you quickly pressed kisses down his chest, sinking to your knees.

You had a theory to prove.

Sherlock’s mind was following his body… in truth, it was his own fault as he’d allowed it to- and now he couldn’t reign it back in to figure out why you had pulled away from his touch before. He tried but your palm against him, and now what you were doing with your lips as you approached the rim of his trousers, demanded his full attention. You gently nuzzled your nose against the marble skin of his abdomen, leaving light kisses on it until it disappeared under his trousers. Letting your nose brush lightly against his covered hardness, you breathed in his scent deeply and then brought your fingers up to unbutton them. He shifted a little nervously, the air of confidence he’d had just moments before dissipating as you ran your fingers down his hips to push away both his trousers and boxers.

Your eyes widened when they landed on the length of his cock, already erect and awaiting your attention, and you knew he noticed, a smug grin spreading across his face when you glanced up at him- arrogant bastard. Deciding to punish him for his continuous ego while also pushing him to refocus, you planted a kiss on his hip bone and trailed your tongue across to the other side to kiss there as well, dipping tauntingly down into the flesh just above his throbbing length on your way. He groaned frustratedly, clenching his hands into fists as you smirked against his skin contently, “Problem, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes met yours, noting your pupils were blown wide with desire, and his tongue flicked out to lick his lower lip slowly. The sweet sound of his name falling your lips alone was enough to send his mind into a more primal overdrive but he didn’t respond. Your thumb stroked absentmindedly at his thigh, giving him a moment to catch his breath, and then he silently nodded that you could continue, the small quick of a smirk on his lips feeling almost like a challenge to you.

When you shifted to wrap your fingers around him and stroke his shaft slowly, he gulped thickly and wondered if he bit off more than he can chew, heart racing as you seemed to blessedly give him time to get a feel for the sensation. After a moment, you gave the tip an experimental lick, swirling your tongue around it, and you could practically feel his teeth gritting as he held back the sound it no doubt would have caused, his nerves entirely melting away to be replaced with need and impatience.

You wanted to hear that sound

Every sound out of the man so far had been need-inspiringly deep and beautiful and you felt you were missing out on this particular one in the worst way. Glancing up at him, you abruptly wrapped your lips around him and took as much of his length in your mouth as you could, swishing your tongue along the underside of it, and immediately got the response you wanted- a soaring musical shout.

Pleased, you hummed around him before hollowing your cheeks to work your mouth along his length a few times, taking it slow to not overwhelm him. Sherlock trembled under your touch, the delightful heat of your lips and tongue around him not something he could have ever anticipated or accurately imagined, and his fingers found their way into your hair seemingly of their own volition. He let out a deep moan and involuntarily bucked his hips when you took him a bit further into your mouth, his tip grazing the back of your throat with the action. You abruptly stopped before you could get carried away with enjoying him, giving one last slow pull with your tongue flicking teasingly across the tip as it left your lips. He let out a breathless whine, head falling back against the wall as you lightly traced your fingers along his slick shaft, “(F/n)… Please.”

You grinned, theory proven, and looked up at him with mock innocence, “What was that?”

He growled, huskily gritting out, “Please, don’t stop.”

You pulled him down to you in response- not a hard feat as his balance was already unsteady- and wrapped your arms around his neck as you settled between his legs, nuzzling your nose against his, “I told you I could make you beg for mercy.”

Sherlock was impatient, already wanting more as he captured your lips with his and murmured into them, “I’ve never been so glad to be completely and utterly wrong.”

His fingers demandingly tugged at the belt loop of your jeans so they slid lower on your hips, and you giggled softly, shifting to lie back into the floor behind you. He didn’t let the space between you grow even an inch, following your movement so he loomed over you with one hand pressed against the floor to keep his weight off you while the other pushed a bit more insistently at your jeans. They relented slowly, loose enough on you to slide down your hips without too much struggle, and you lifted a little to help him get them off, nothing underneath. You kicked them away entirely and wove your fingers into his hair, pulling him back into a lustful kiss as he settled between your legs and his free hand pulled your leg up to his hip. He made a small noise in the back of his throat as the sensitive skin of his throbbing cock pressed against your slick core, his skin crashing against yours in a small desperate buck that settled him between your achingly wet folds. The action caused his tip to brush over the little nub hidden between them in a way that made you arch up to him with a shiver as a jolt of skin-tingling pleasure shot through you.

He broke the kiss to take in a ragged breath, unprepared for that sensation, and you took the opportunity to examine his face. Your fingers itched to draw him like this- his eyes closed, brow furrowed in concentration, lips gently parted as he took in short panting breaths, his cheeks flushed an almost boyish pink. After a steadying moment, his eyes flicked open to immediately find yours. You searched for something in them when they did, fingers moving to stroke his cheekbones, and he wondered what exactly it was you were looking for. He mirrored your search and came up with no answer, allowing you to continue delving into the depths of his eyes; the normally brilliant blues and greys of his gaze were clouded with lust, making them dark and hazy, but underneath it was something else… that look you could never define.

As difficult as it was for him with his length nestled in your warm folds, he waited for your signal, sensing there was something important happening in your mind. You came to a decision and leaned up to hesitantly graze your lips against his in the simplest of kisses but the rush of feeling it gave him was like a tsunami crashing over a tiny island in a lonely sea. The world seemed to disappear as he gently returned it and then rested his forehead on yours, impatience momentarily forgotten as he let out a content hum and a warm tingling sensation spread over him beginning deep in his chest.

You broke the moment to kiss him more forcefully, stroking your fingers through his hair and then down his spine as your nails dragged roughly across his skin and you arched up into him in a silent plea for him to continue. He stole the gasp from your lips with his as he shifted his hips back to push into you slowly and carefully, having regained a bit of his sense through the haze of pleasure. He moved from your lips to chew at his own, relishing the new sensation of your wet heat wrapped snugly around him, and you pressed your nose into his flushed cheek, panting softly against his skin. It had been a long time since anyone had been so gentle with you and you let out a pleased hum as his tip bumped against your deepest point, enjoying the slight stretch and full feeling. He shifted to buck against you much too soon and you couldn’t stop a soft whimper from escaping in response to the quick, harsh movement. His eyes to snapped open as he lifted away from your shoulder to look down at you, huskily thrumming, “Not good?”

You grinned at the genuine concern in his face before wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him down to you, leaving a light, fleeting kiss against his lips as you softly explained, “You’re a bit more than I’m used to, love. Just need to adjust… Take it slow.”

He rested his forehead against yours for a long moment and then hesitantly flexed his hips to pull out of you to the tip before slowly slipping back into your soft walls with a low baritone moan. You gasped breathlessly, your head falling back against the floor as ripples of pleasure surged up your body, the motion stroking places you didn’t even think reachable. He repeated the movement, pleased with your reaction and unable to quell his own growing need, and easily picked up a slow but steady pace of filling you completely with his length.

His free hand began to wander down your side, ghosting across your skin as he dipped down to kiss you, and you gently tugged at his hair in a plea for more. He willingly obliged, startling you a little when he lifted you to sit back on his heels so he could have better control without the risk of trapping you under his weight. Settling into the new position, you quickly wound your arms around his neck and his hands fell to your hips just as you gave them a small swirl, pressing yourself more firmly down on him. He lost whatever control he had left, gripping your hips tightly as he desperately bucked up into you with new speed, the change rewarded with the feeling of you moaning out his name against his neck in approval as your walls tightened around him.

It had been a while since you’d done anything like this and he was by far the most impressive man you’d ever been with, so it was no surprise when the bundle of nerves at your core quickly made itself known, tightening dangerously each time he fit himself against you. You raked your fingers across his back as his deep moans mingled in harmony with yours an octave above and when he hit that blissful spot that made the world so beautifully colorful as it spun, you cried out, “Oh! There!”

You swore you felt him smirk into your shoulder before he gave a succession of deep thrusts, all of them hitting that spot with such force that you felt like the spinning would be permanent and your muscles tensed to tighten drastically around him. You couldn’t help but cry out as pleasure washed over you and you could hear that he was narrating much the same sensation in deep groans, your tightly wound nerves rapidly rushing toward their breaking point- a good thing too because Sherlock wasn’t going to be able to last much longer.

Through the haze you could feel him growling, trying to hold back the inevitable, and you pulled him to you in a grateful kiss just as you went careening over the edge. The pleasure burst from within you, rapidly radiating through your body to your fingers and toes as you broke the kiss and buried your face against his neck. His name left your lips like a desperate prayer, your body tensing around him as your fingernails dug harshly into his back and your toes curled. He let out of small surprised huff, the smooth lilt of your voice crying his name triggering his own release, and his head fell back as he breathed out your name in a series of halting moans in sync with his final thrusts. He relished the intense feeling, burying his nose in your neck with a small whimper, and then flopped down to the floor with you on top of him, completely and utterly spent.


	47. Chapter 47

You almost couldn’t believe how things had escalated from paint covered touches to this moment. If Sherlock wasn’t limpy spread out under you on the floor as the both of you tried to catch your breath, you probably would have written it off as a dream. Snuggling into him a little at that thought, your hand settled over his heart as you tucked your nose against the underside of his chin and his arm snaked around your waist to keep you close. You just relished the relative silence and the steady beat of his heart against your fingertips until he calmed enough to hum, “I don’t think John has to worry about me getting bored anymore.”

“For once, I think we should let him worry,” you chuckled softly, “knowing what we just did would likely give him a heart attack.”

“True.”

You lifted up off him, an arm on either side of his head as you looked down at him with a satisfied grin, and he reached up to tuck your hair away from your face, “What?”

“You have paint in your hair,” you hummed, dipping down to claim his lips in a light kiss.

It looked good on him, the bright greens, yellows, and blues from your palette standing out against his dark locks, and he chuckled softly before rolling so he was over you, his fingers tracing your face and running lightly over your kiss-swollen lips.

His free hand began to trace down your body, just enjoying the feel of your skin under his fingers as he assessed the new high he felt in this moment. He got small snippets of previously deleted memories from his more youthful, hormone filled days, noting that while he’d felt this type of physical satisfaction before it in no way compared to what he was feeling now. This high, it seemed, was something he could not achieve on his own. He briefly considered the implications of that before storing all everything away for a later time when he was alone to give his attention fully to thinking it over. He returned to his study of your skin in soft touches, tracing your neck and shoulder lightly.

When his fingers strayed lower to your chest, you tensed just as you had when he’d initially explored the area in more intimate touches. Mind much clearer now that it wasn’t addled by physical need, he kissed down from your collar bone to finally find out why. His nose brushed against your skin affectionately as he ventured lower before pulling back to look you over.

His small blissful smirk fell to a frown and his eyes flicked up to see you had turned your head to the side and were chewing on your lip uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze. His fingers traced his discovery: a line of small circular scars that mimicked the band of your bra across the front of your chest and around your side so they were hidden when it was on.

He looked up at you again, “Cigarette burns?”

You sighed tightly, eyes scrunched closed, “My punishment for when I disobeyed.”

His eyes quickly scanned you for any more scars and found similar burn marks on your lower abdomen in an arrow pattern pointing down, something that could easily be hidden by a higher waisted bikini bottom. He ran his finger over them gently as he breathed just above a whisper, “And these?”

He could barely hear your answer as you struggled with the tightness in your chest to get it out, “For when I was bad.”

He felt sorrow and anger crush down on him, taking a deeper breath in and then out to calm himself before he softly hummed, “(F/n).”

When you didn’t answer, he sighed softly and pulled you up to sitting, fingers of one hand tangling lightly in your hair as the other came up to your face. You felt his fingers on your chin and reluctantly met his eyes, dashing between them insecurely. Now that he had your full attention, he leaned in and kissed you, feeling you relax when you felt a sense of reassurance in the gentle way he moved his lips against yours.

He got up, tugging you gently up with him, “Come on. Sleeping on the floor will only get you sick again.”

Still unsure of what he wanted from you, or what this even was, you wondered if, now that he had satisfied his physical curiosities, he would want to go back up to his flat. The moment of bliss from before quickly crashed down around you as your insecurities and doubts started to settle back in. You hugged yourself and examined the floor, seeing no point in delaying the inevitable as you softly asked, “You’re leaving?”

“Of course not. Don’t be daft, (F/n)”

You ignored his comment in your glee at the fact he would stay, a grin playing across your face before you yawned softly and started to tug him towards your room, “Good because I’m going to need an extra set of hands in the shower to get rid of all this paint.”

He smirked thoughtfully, head tilting slightly to the side as he let that play out in his mind before answering, “An interesting proposition… I look forward to it.”

You giggled softly and pushed him gently into your bed before joining him, your cheek pressed against the painted heart on his chest so you could listen to the steady beat of the one underneath. The two of you settled under your covers, the small single bed having barely enough room for both Sherlock’s lanky form and yours, but the closeness wasn’t minded. He wound his arms tightly around you as you snuggled into him, the beat of his heart lulling you to sleep as he softly stroked your hair. He sighed contently as his lids started to droop- you were finally tucked under his arm and softly huffing air onto his skin like he’d wanted all those nights ago and now he felt whole.


	48. Chapter 48

The bed seemed terribly empty when Sherlock woke up and you were missing, for a while by the coolness of the bedding next to him. He rolled out of it to find all his clothes except for his shirt neatly folded on the bedside table and pulled them on before wandering out to the living room. He couldn’t help but grin when he saw you in front of your easel fully dressed in the clothes from the night before, your hair pulled back, and a fat brush in hand.

He watched you work on your new painting, sitting down in your chair since you didn’t seem aware of the fact that he was awake. It was the same canvas from the night before but you had incorporated both his and your handprints from his experiment into it, making it more abstract than it had been originally. From the amount of work you’d done at this level of concentration, you had to have been up at least a few hours if not longer, meaning his experiment was a success. You reached for a tube of paint absentmindedly, having used all that you’d set out of that color, and sighed when you found it empty.

You scrunched up your face as you turned with the intent to see if you had another tube stashed away somewhere and startled when you saw Sherlock in your chair, offering him a small nervous smile, “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t notice you were up… about your shirt… I don’t think I’ll be able to get the paint out. I’ll replace it, but you should probably go put on another before John gets home.”

He could tell something was off but not what, so he simply stated, “You’re painting again.”

You didn’t even bother to scold him for pointing out the obvious, turning to look at your painting with a tiny smile, “Yes. I just woke up and felt like doing so… That hasn’t happened in a while.”

Sherlock got the smuggest of smug looks on his face, “My experiment was a success. The minds of average people are so easily distracted by the physical.”

You froze in your examination of your painting, an unsettling chill running through you, “What?”

Overly proud of himself and cocky as all hell, he missed the slight hint of unease in your voice, “I hypothesized that reassociating the act of painting with something of a positive nature that overloaded the senses would override the negative effects of your past experiences. From your success this morning, the intense physical contact of an affirming nature overruled the issues plaguing you before- in effect resetting your simplistic mind to allow you to paint again. I suppose there are benefits to having a normal brain.”

“So this was all part of your experiment?” you queried, your voice dangerously quiet.

“Of course.” 

Your face fell for a moment before you composed yourself and then announced, “You should go. John will be back from Amy’s soon.”

It was more evident that something was wrong now given the demanding edge to your voice but, as usual, that was as far as he got- if you didn’t want him to know your thoughts then he wouldn’t know them. It bothered him that he could only ascertain that you were upset but not why and since it obviously wasn’t over being able to paint again, as that was a good thing, he decided it must be about your friend. Of course, he was wrong but what can you do?

He got up to leave because you were right- John would be home soon- and he still didn’t do the whole comforting thing, especially not when you wanted him out. You moved back to your painting, distracting yourself by working on one of the more detailed corners as you mumbled, “Don’t forget your violin.”

Once he’d gone, you stopped, your jaw clenching in thought, and decided to try and clear your head by taking a shower to get rid of the paint on your skin reminding you of the night before. When you’d woken up that morning you weren’t sure how to act, you felt guilty about his ruined shirt, and then you began to question the whole thing. You’d distracted yourself by painting since that was what had woken you up in the first place but when he’d got up and said what he said- all the doubts came rushing back.

You scolded yourself as the water ran down your skin, you knew he was just curious and that it wouldn’t be anything more. He’d been using you to figure out another aspect of human behavior, it was your fault for getting caught up in it since you’d know that from the start. You could hardly be mad at him for suddenly catching more feelings than either of your intended. You hadn’t even wanted a relationship… when had that changed? When did you start wanting more?

You considered it for a moment, it wasn’t as though he didn’t care… he had helped you with your painting even if the how hadn’t been exactly what you’d expected. But then again, it may have been just so that he didn’t have to go through the tedious task of getting you out of work every time he wanted something from you. Maybe John had been right- you weren’t an experiment and letting him treat you as such was messing you up.

Clean and dressed, you looked over your apartment, entirely conflicted, and debated what you should do next. You could lie on the floor and think but that didn’t sound appealing at all- your thoughts were too jumbled. You could let the need to be destructive that was creeping into your chest take over but that was hardly productive or helpful- not to mention you’d have to clean up later. There was only one other option and out of the three it seemed the best- you could paint and lose yourself in it… might as well put the results of Sherlock’s ‘experiment’ to good use.

You cranked up some music on your stereo system to a ‘don’t disturb me’ level, a painting playlist of random unrelated songs that you liked, set up a new palette after washing your brushes and getting new water, and then set aside the painting you’d been working on in favor of a blank white canvas. Best not to think about how that one was made, you reasoned as you mixed a starting color. You let yourself get lost in the action, spreading bold strokes of reds and yellows over the surface as you let out all the emotions you’d been holding inside for so long.

John broke into a wide grin when he came home and heard your odd choice in music, knowing it meant you were painting again as he climbed the stairs to his flat. Sherlock was spread out on the couch as usual, deep in thought, and John rolled his eyes as he went into the kitchen.

Your music shut off just before noon, when your alarm went off the remind you that you had to go to work, and John came down to see how you were doing just as you were locking the door to your flat, “How’s the painting going, Squeak?”

You sighed, “Good I suppose. Certainly better then it has been.”

He stopped you when you went to leave, pushing the hair escaping your bun behind your ear, “What’s the matter, (F/n)? That’s a good thing, isn’t it? You should be happy.”

You forced a small grin, “I am, Johnny. I’ve just got a lot on my mind is all.”

“Like what?”

You chuckled, removing yourself from his grasp, “Like work. I’ve gotta go.”

He frowned as you left, you should have been ecstatic about being able to paint again…what was so pressing in your mind that it had stolen the wind from your sails? Climbing the stairs again, he went to see if Sherlock knew anything, reaching for the half-full mug of coffee next to him to get his attention. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open to glare at him for trying to touch his mug, effectively halting John’s advance, “What?”

“Do you have any idea what’s got (F/n) looking so troubled?”

“Not in the slightest.”

John huffed, unconvinced but unwilling to press, and plopped down in his chair as Sherlock went back to thinking. He’d enjoyed the night before, snippets of it kept replaying in his mind, and he’d never slept better but, for some reason, he couldn’t shake what had happened when he’d woken up. Social conventions and his study of human behavior on the subject told him that the thoughtless masses determined the morning after to be a complex moment.

He didn’t understand why.

It seemed to him that it could go one of two ways: your partner could slip away before it was light and never call or they could remain and continue the relationship. He’d stayed. Simple.

So why had you been so nervous?

He supposed it had something to do with your past as you were displaying signs of distress over something as unimportant as the state of his shirt but then you’d also told him to leave- a complete turn around from the night before when you suggested he shower with you. He’d done everything right and yet something was wrong. He was missing something… it had to be some odd facet of human behavior that he hadn’t considered. The only question was which one…


	49. Chapter 49

Mycroft knew something was bothering you the moment he walked through the café doors. His assumption quickly confirmed when you slipped over to greet him, giving only a weak grin, “Hey, Mycroft. What can I get you?”

He pursed his lips, “Coffee- Black, three sugars. No French or formalities today, (F/n)?”

You just shook your head, “I’ll be back with your coffee in a moment.”

When you returned but didn’t sit with him as you usually did, he couldn’t help but give a small frown- you could plaster a very convincing fake grin on your face and fool everyone else but not him. In a lull, he caught your attention and you trotted over obediently, ready to fulfill whatever his request might be. For the first time since he’d started coming in, he had to ask you to sit with him, “May I have a word, (F/n)?”

Looking over your section and then at the time, you gave a short nod and went to make sure someone would cover you while you took a break. When you returned, he broached the subject head-on, asking what was on his mind, “Did Sherlock tell you to stay away from me?”

Your eyes widened, “N-No, Mycroft… I know he was not exactly happy about us talking but I am my own person. He cannot tell me what to do or whom to talk to.”

“Then whatever is the matter, my dear?” Mycroft frowned, he would never admit it but he could see the value of the company of another when you sat with him… he might even go so far as to say you were friends. It was a rather foreign concept to him and the slight sense of caring was bothersome but he knew it wasn’t something he couldn’t stop, so he just accepted it. It was kind of nice to have someone other than Sherlock to talk to.

He watched you chew at your lip before sighing and raising your eyes to look at him, “You told me once that caring was not an advantage…”

“Yes and if I recall you made a fairly good argument for the merits of caring for others.”

You fiddled with your pen, capping it and uncapping it, “I’m beginning to think I was wrong.”

“And why is that?”

“Just look at my life Mycroft… the only person I deeply care about that hasn’t hurt me is John- even Harry has hurt me in the past- and beyond that, the others that I care about either leave me, get themselves killed, or take advantage… and with those that haven’t, it’s only a matter of time before they do.”

Mycroft furrowed his brow, unsure of how to handle this new attitude, “And you would give up your friends to avoid this?”

There was a short silence as you thought that over and then shook your head, “No… I suppose not,” before running a hand through the front of your hair, “Maybe I just need to step back from everything to see the whole picture… it certainly helps with my paintings.”

You suddenly looked up and offered him a genuine smile, “Thank you, Mycroft. You were very helpful.”

He gaped at you confusedly for a moment, not understanding exactly what he’d done to be helpful, but you just grinned at him and then got up to get back to work. After straightening your apron, you patted his shoulder and murmured, “Merci Beaucoup, Monsieur Holmes. À la prochaine.”

He watched you bounce away, enthusiasm restored, and rolled his eyes as he shook his head- he would never understand the emotions of those less intelligent than him, especially women. One second they were happy and the next sad… it was off-putting.

Mycroft had long since gone when you heard Annie call you from across the café, spinning to respond only to freeze and then break into a wide grin followed by a loud squeal, “GABRIEL!”

You bounded over to greet a tall man with tan, olive skin and a flop of dark hair with a slight wave, throwing your arms happily around his neck so he could sweep you off the ground and into a spin, “Hola, querida! Cómo estás?”

“Come on Gabe, you know my Spanish is terrible…” you pouted, leaning back from him slightly as Annie laughed, the noise drawing your attention to her, “Why didn’t you tell me he was coming? Why didn’t you call Gabe?”

Annie rolled her eyes and went to take care of your section when he kissed the end of your nose, causing you to giggle as he flashed a brilliant smile and explained, “I wanted to surprise you. Everyone in Paris misses you so much… I figured you’d be missing us as well,” he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as he added, “especially me.”

You laughed happily, wiggling so he would set you down again, “You flirt! I’ve missed you too, Gabe, but I rather like London. It’s started to feel like home.”

“You’ve been well then? Happy? No troubles?” he queried, concern clouding his normally jovial expression.

Nodding, you grinned, “I’m getting back to myself again. It’s definitely a relief.”

“Well then, amor,” he purred, taking your hand to twirl you into a dip, “Care to go salsa dancing with me tonight?”

“Like a date?” you asked, poking his cheek so he would let you up as he simply responded, “Si.”

You furrowed your brow as you considered it for a second- you’d known Gabriel for a long time and he’d been one of the ones to take you to the hospital when that whole mess happened so you trusted him. You couldn’t say you weren’t attracted to him and you knew your friendship would remain intact even if it didn’t work out because he was just a laid back guy but what about Sherlock?

You had never felt the way you did with him for anyone else but on the other hand, it wasn’t as if he felt the same… you two weren’t even in a relationship. If you were going to care then at least it could be with someone who cared back- maybe this was the universe’s way of saying you should move on. Deciding that if you were ready to be in a relationship again, then you deserved a chance to be happy and loved, you offered Gabriel a grin, “Pick me up at eight. 221 Baker Street.”

Before he could respond, you swished away to get back to work, tossing him a flirty grin and a wink as you caught up to Annie who softly hummed, “About time you got back out there but what happened to your detective friend? I thought you two had a thing.”

“Nope. He’s married to his work and devoted to his mistress- science.”

She raised an eyebrow, picking up on the slight bitterness in your tone, but didn’t press, simply offering, “Have fun tonight then. You deserve it.”

After work, you went to your closet and pulled out the dress you’d been thinking about all day, a cute red number with an open back and knee length ruffled skirt that had a slit that went all the way up your thigh. Cliché, you knew, but what else do you wear out salsa dancing? Besides, it looked damn good and you had an adorable hair clip and heels to match.

You were almost ready when you went to reach for a lipstick and found that the bag you kept your plethora of lip things in was missing, sighing as you tried to remember where you could have left it. A light bulb popped up as you remembered that you had gotten ready for work upstairs one morning when your water wasn’t working. You’d probably left it in the boy’s flat and, since you carried your current favorite shade of lipstick with you, it hadn’t come up until now. You glanced at the clock- Gabe would be there in less than five minutes and you could only pray that at least John was not only home but that your bag was easy to find as you turned to bound out of your flat and up the stairs.

Not bothering to knock, you burst through the door, heels clicking across the floor as you frantically searched for your bag, grumbling, “Where the bloody hell is it? I can’t go out without lipstick… might as well just go naked.”

John looked up from his laptop and Sherlock from his microscope, both startling slightly at your choice of attire as John frowned, “You look nice… where are you going?”

Your dress looked fantastic with your strappy red heels and you’d left your hair down, one side pulled back with a clip shaped like a gold butterfly with red accents. You found your bag under a small stack of papers, holding it up triumphantly before swishing over to the mirror to add a dark red lipstick to your already striking makeup as you answered, “I have a date.”

You spun and gave your hips a little shake as you beamed, “He’s taking me salsa dancing.”

John opened his mouth to ask some follow-up questions but the buzzer rang and you giggled, “I have to go… don’t wait up.”

John looked to Sherlock as you bounded down the stairs and out the door, noting that he’d gone a little pale, “What happened there?”

Sherlock went back to his microscope as though nothing had happened, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

John narrowed his eyes, “I’m talking about my sister going out on a date… Don’t you care? I punched you…”

He didn’t look up as he grumbled, “Why should I care if she’s going on a date?”

“So you’re not jealous?”

Sherlock huffed, “Jealousy is for simple minded idiots.”

John rolled his eyes, going back to his blog since goading Sherlock wasn’t getting him anywhere, and Sherlock let his face slip into a frown. He was jealous… why were you going out with another man? That was not what he’d expected after what you had done together the other night. He couldn’t understand it… maybe you had just used him to get over your insecurities about dating again, or maybe he’d done something wrong during the physical act- it was an area he was relatively inexperienced in. What did this guy have that he didn’t? He was probably an idiot. His mind raced as he tried to figure it out, coming to the only final conclusion that he could- he disliked this entire situation and he needed to do something about it immediately.


	50. Chapter 50

It started with a text, “I need you, it’s an emergency. –SH”

You sighed at your phone, not bothering to respond as you looked out the cab window, but less than a minute later you received another, “Come home if convenient. –SH”

It was quickly followed by, “If inconvenient come all the same. -SH”

Starting to get a little bit concerned, Gabriel wound an arm around your shoulders, leaning his head on yours, “Problem?”

You offered him a small smile, “No. Just my brother’s flatmate. He’s a genius but a little needy at times.”

Quickly clicking the keys on your phone, you responded, “I’m on a date, Sherlock. I’m sure whatever it is John can help you with. –(F/I)W”

“It’s a John emergency. –SH”

You rolled your eyes even with the niggling concern for your brother that sprang up and shot John a text, “Is everything alright, Johnny? –(F/I)W”

“Everything is fine, Squeak. Why? –JW”

“Sherlock texted me there was an emergency. I’m going to ignore him. Let me know if something real happens. –(F/I)W.”

“Of course. Have fun. –JW.”

John looked up at his flatmate, he was still at the microscope but kept glancing over at his phone, “You are jealous.”

“I’ve already told you I’m not. Do try and keep up, John.”

“Care to explain what this emergency is then?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, “I need her to help me with my work.”

“I think we need to redefine what qualifies as an emergency.” John teased, trying to keep his tone even to hide his amusement over how Sherlock had begun to fidget.

“Are you saying my work isn’t important?” Sherlock snapped and John rolled his eyes, “Certainly not important enough to ruin her night when I’m perfectly capable of helping you.”

“She’s willing. You aren’t.”

“If it gets you to leave her alone, I would be more than happy to help.”

Sherlock grumbled, “I don’t want your help,” before getting up and stalking over to take John’s computer.

“Hey!”

“I need it. It’s important.”

John looked over his shoulder as Sherlock typed away, trying to guess the password for your phone’s GPS, “Stalking my sister is important?”

Sherlock didn’t respond and John sighed, “Can’t you just leave her be, Sherlock? You must have done something for her to go out with someone else… frankly, it’s kind of a relief. I should have known you’d mess it up. Would have saved me a lot of energy.”

Sherlock shot him a glare, “I told you already I don’t care that she went out on a date. Dates are pointless wastes of time. You should know, considering you’ve been on ten in the last month and none of them with the same woman. I’m concerned about the man she’s gone with… We know nothing about him. Could he not be some sort of murderer or sexual deviant? You said yourself her taste is not to be trusted.”

John considered this for a moment, realizing that Sherlock had a point, and then leaned closer, “Try ‘SnufflesRocks’ she used to use that when we were kids.”

This went on for a short while longer, with Sherlock getting frustrated that he couldn’t figure out your password as easily as he could with everyone else and John suggesting random things in an attempt to help. Sherlock had just tried every variant of the word ‘teal’ he could think of when John huffed from his spot splayed out on the couch, “It’s probably in French.”

There was a period of silence while they both considered that and then John abruptly sat up, “How do you say ‘Shit. I lost my mobile.’ in French?” 

“Merde. J'ai perdu mon portable,” Sherlock hummed absentmindedly, still staring at the screen, before startling as he came out of his thoughts, “That’s brilliant, Watson!”

He typed it in and then sighed when it didn’t work, folding his hands and pressing the sides of his fingers against his lips as he thought some more before giving a small smirk, “It’s an acronym.”

“What?”

He just waved a hand, typing in ‘M.J’APMP’ and grinning when there came a ping and a screen change at his success, “Clever.”

In the blink of an eye, he memorized your location, closed out the window so John couldn’t follow, and then grabbed his coat to swoop out the door as John called, “Wait a minute, Sherlock! Where are you going?”

Letting out a heavy sigh, John decided it would be pointless to follow since Sherlock was moving rather swiftly and he didn’t even have shoes on to chase after him. He wondered if he should warn you and then resolved to stay out of it- Sherlock would likely get punched by either you or your date for whatever nonsense he was going to try so it didn’t really matter.


	51. Chapter 51

John pretty much expected his phone to ring sometime in the near future, what he didn’t expect was for the person on the other end to be Sherlock, “Can (F/n) dance?”

“Umm… Not particularly, no. She’s pretty decent at salsa and the tango-something about the music-… and I’ve seen her do a bearable very basic waltz but other than that she’s awful. Doesn’t keep her from doing so but really… just complete rubbish.”

Sherlock hung up on John so he didn’t have to deal with his questions, having already gotten the information he needed, and strode across the street to the small dance club. It wasn’t hard to find you since both you and Gabriel weren’t exactly shy, dancing openly near the center of the floor, and for a moment, Sherlock did what a number of other people were already doing and tucked himself off the side to watch.

He’d never been so bombarded with emotions in his entire life and, while normally he would have found this either interesting and taken extensive notes or immensely annoying that he couldn’t reign in his feelings, at this moment he was so far beyond that that all he could manage was jealousy. For the first time in his life this wasn’t about experimenting or studying human behavior, it was just simple raw emotion.

It took him a while to tear his eyes away from you- the way your hips were moving was entrancing and he was beginning to feel hot and short of breath. Then there was the smile on your face- it could have lit up the whole room it was so bright and uninhibited. He’d only seen you smile like that a few times before but every time it managed to unwittingly bring a smile to his own face. This time though, his face quickly fell into a frown because that smile was directed towards the suave looking Spaniard in front of you, his hands wandering over your various curves as he spun you and your lilting laugh mingled with the upbeat rhythms and punctuating brass notes.

Had Sherlock been a more impulsive and base man, he would have very quickly ended the scene with a series of quick but forceful blows to Gabe’s nose, jaw… and possibly throat. Fortunately, he was not. He clenched his hands tightly as his natural instincts screamed at him to do something, setting his jaw and forcing himself to tackle this like he did everything else, with precision and logic.

You startled badly when Gabe spun you and you ran directly into Sherlock a few feet away, blinking up at him confusedly for a second and then letting out an exasperated sigh, “What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

“You stopped responding to my texts”

“I’m on a date.”

“It was an emergency.”

Gabe slid up behind you, wrapping a protective arm around your waist with a serious frown, “Is everything alright here, mi hermosa?”

You turned from glaring at Sherlock to press a calming hand on Gabe’s chest, offering him a reassuring smile, “Everything is fine, Gabe. I know him.”

You gave Sherlock a look that told him he had better behave or you were never going to speak to him again and he clenched his jaw, holding back the biting deductions and other viciousness that threatened to spill out of his mouth. Gabe sized up the man in front of you with a wary glare and Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he extended a hand, doing everything in his power not to just punch him and end this, “Sherlock Holmes and you are…?”

“Gabriel. Gabriel Salazar.”

You didn’t like where this was going so you quickly offered, “He was just lea-“

“I was just asking if I could have the next dance. You wouldn’t mind, would you?” Sherlock interjected smoothly, trying to keep his expression as amicable as possible. Gabe pursed his lips, looking between the two of you before tucking you to him tightly, “I think she’s enjoying dancing with me right now.”

The music suddenly changed to the distinctive rhythm of a tango with a slight salsa twist and there were a few groans from other dancers around you as Sherlock gave the slightest of smirks, detectable only by you. Gabe huffed, blatantly ignoring Sherlock to look at you as he pushed some hair away from your face, “The tango is not my dance, Cariño. Shall we grab some drinks?”

Unwilling to let this little event ruin your night, you pouted at him and ran your fingers teasingly down his chest as you leaned in a little, “But I like the tango, Gabe. Please?” 

You both swiveled to look at Sherlock when he hummed, “A happy coincidence. I also enjoy the tango,” before extending a hand for you, “May I?”   
You could see anger flash in Gabe’s eyes as his grip on you tightened protectively and you felt your own temper flare but pushed it down, patting his chest calmly, “It’s only one dance, Gabe. He and I need to have a little talk anyways.”

He searched your face, worry apparent in his eyes, but you gave him a small reassuring smile so he relinquished his grip on you grumbling, “I will be right over there if you need me, Querida.”

Sherlock flashed a smug smirk at your date as he stepped away and you took his still extended hand, allowing him to pull you into the close steps of the dance as you seethed, “Why are you doing this? You do know that requesting a tango in the middle of a salsa night is like a death wish, don’t you?”

“Who said I requested it?” he thrummed, dipping you down as his large hand stroked down the curve of your waist. You pursed your lips and gave him a look that said don’t play games with me as you twirled away from him, glad that the dance allowed for a bit of teasing on your part. He was quick to pull you back flush against him with his forehead nearly touching yours, “Why didn’t you come home?”

You faltered momentarily as his gorgeous eyes locked with yours in an intense stare and his long legs gracefully wrapped around yours in a quick succession of movements. You took the opportunity of the next move to look away as you huffed, “Nothing was wrong, Sherlock. Can’t I have one night without you being the center of my attention.”

“You weren’t complaining last night,” he hummed, his nose brushing against your collarbone as he dipped you again, fitting himself against you and running a hand up your bare thigh when you bent your leg to bring your knee up to his hip. Your breath caught in your throat and you threw your leg back to force him to bring you up, cursing the intimacy of the dance. He caught your hand when you twirled away again, keeping your face turned away from him as you growled, “Why does it bother you so much, Sherlock? I’m just an experiment to you.”

With a flick of his wrist, he spun you back to him, a hand at the small of your back keeping you close as he frowned at you confusedly, “I don’t understand why you are upset.”

You abruptly stopped dancing, pulling away from him as you lowly fumed, “You are so bloody ignorant, you arrogant cock. I let you trick me into thinking you cared but John was right- all I am is some specimen for you to run your little tests on so you can learn more about the colloquialisms of the mushy ignorant minds of everyone who is not you.”

He gaped at you for a second, mind racing to analyze what you’d just said, and you turned to look for Gabriel, storming off with Sherlock close behind, “(F/n).”

He caught your wrist just as you reached a concerned looking Gabriel and you spun to snap, “I care about you, Sherlock, more than I should… but I can’t do this! You took something wonderful between two people and made it into something cold and meaningless. And now you… I’m not some plaything at your beck and call! I have feelings! I’ve already been with someone who didn’t love me, who hurt me, and I will not end up in that situation again. I deserve to be loved- to be happy!”

You lost your battle against the tears and they quickly rushed the territory of your cheeks, a mix of sadness and anger filling your chest as you slapped him hard across the face and spun on your heel to leave, grabbing Gabriel’s arm as you went. You stopped short when he didn’t move, removing himself gently from your grasp to face Sherlock who for once in his life looked a little stunned.

There was a sharp crack as Gabriel’s fist collided with Sherlock’s face before he turned back to you, leaving Sherlock sprawled out on the floor rubbing at his wounded jaw. He wrapped an arm around you to lead you away from everything as he whispered sweet Spanish nothings in your ear, trying to soothe you. You let him, sparing only a tearful fleeting glance over your shoulder at the man you loved before slipping out into the cool night air.


	52. Chapter 52

Sherlock slipped through the door of the flat in a tiff, flopping over the arm of the couch and onto its cushions in the most severe sulk John had ever seen, causing the doctor to raise a brow as he stated, “From the look of it, it didn’t go as you planned.”

Sherlock just stared at the ceiling as John sighed and looked him over. His face was a mess- the side that you’d slapped him on was still a glowing red and the opposite side where Gabriel had punched him was already bruising around his cheekbone and blood trickled from a cut on his lip.

“Her date hit you?” John wondered flatly, having actually expected worse, and Sherlock rolled to face the back of the couch as he grumbled, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

John couldn’t help but give a small chuckle, shutting his laptop, “I’m going to bed. Try not to stay up too late with your jealous brooding.”

Sherlock harrumphed, pulling his knees up to his chest, and John just shook his head, after all the trouble Sherlock had caused for him it was kind of funny to see the consulting detective this way, even if his face probably needed to be patched up and put on ice. He briefly wondered how you were doing with your date after Sherlock’s unwelcome interruption and then reminded himself that not only were you an adult but you tended to bounce back from things like this rather quickly, slipping off to sleep.

It was nearly three in the morning when his slumber was disturbed by the sound of his phone ringing and he groggily groped for it to answer, “D’you have any bloody idea what time it is?”

There was a soft chuckle on the other end before your chipper voice rang out, “I’d say it’s about a quarter till three, Johnny. Sorry to wake you but I’m in a bit of a bind.”

He went rigid, his mind already conjuring up worst-case scenario situations, “What’s happened, (F/n)? Are you hurt?”

He swore for a moment he could feel you rolling your eyes through the phone as you huffed, “Aside from my aching feet, I’m just fine. I need you to come collect me.”

Relaxing a little, he shifted to sitting as he ran a hand through his hair and then over his face to try and get rid of the sleep, “D’you know where you are?”

You laughed lightly, “I’d be more than a tad embarrassed if I didn’t in this situation.”

John sighed in slight annoyance and pressed, “And that would be where?”

“Oh right. Sorry. The Yard.”

John frowned, in trouble again… why wasn’t he surprised, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Sherlock shot up from the couch when John stumbled down the stairs yawning as he pulled a knit jumper over his head, eyeing him for a moment before stating, “She’s gotten herself into some sort of trouble.”

John tugged on his jacket as he confirmed, “I have to get her from the Yard.”

“And her date?”

“She didn’t say.”

Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf, much to John’s surprise, and then chided your brother for lollygagging as he strode out the door.

By the time they arrived, you were chatting casually with a tired looking Lestrade and a couple of other people they didn’t recognize, your wrist handcuffed to the back of a chair next to the desk you where sitting on with two sets of cuffs. John to raised his eyebrow as it seemed a bit like overkill just as you spotted him and gave a little wave with your free hand, “Hey Johnny.” 

Your face fell drastically when you saw he’d brought along Sherlock and you turned away from them with a frown as Lestrade and happy looking PC approached the pair, “You here to bail her out?”

John nodded, “I suppose I am. What did she do?”

Lestrade cut in to huff in a slightly awed tone, “She broke into the Tower Bridge to sketch.”

Sherlock was staring at you intently as you looked up at the ceiling and nonchalantly swung your legs, clearly not willing to meet his gaze, so he demanded, “Was she alone?”

Lestrade looked up at him and startled, “Good God, Holmes. What happened to your face?”

“Just answer the question,” Sherlock snapped lowly and Lestrade shook his head, answering, “She was by herself as far as I can tell,” before looking over to John in hopes of garnering an answer. John gave a small smirk as he offered, “He interrupted (F/n)’s date.”

Lestrade took that as explanation enough and walked off when he was called, leaving Sherlock to cross his arms and let out a huff. The PC handed John some paperwork to fill out as she explained, “Charges won’t be pressed and the fine’s already been paid… Your sister must have friends in high places- not surprising though. She’s got a winning personality. I just need your signature that she’s been released to you on the orders of a… Mr. M. Holmes.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock scowled and John just shrugged, signing the paper, “She could have been in a lot of trouble without his help, Sherlock. Let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Sherlock slipped further into his pout and the PC offered the two of them a grin, “Let me just process this and then she’s all yours. You can talk to her while you wait if you’d like.”

John gave you that look that said you were in big trouble as he approached you but you just offered him a grin, “Hey Johnny. Lovely night isn’t it.”

“Don’t ‘Hey Johnny’ me, (F/n). The bloody Tower Bridge? What in heaven’s name were you thinking? What happened to your date?”

You shrugged indifferently, “I was curious what the Thames looked like from there at night. As for Gabe, I sent him home. We make better friends in the long run, too much of a flirt for me.”

John ran a hand down his face as he let out a tired sigh, “You can’t just do these things because you’re curious, (F/n). How did you even get caught? I know you’re more careful than that.”

You went a slight shade of pink and gave a little embarrassed laugh, “I wasn’t paying as close attention as I normally do… and it took me too long to get the lock open.”

“You were upset.” Sherlock stated decisively, noting again that he needed to teach you to pick locks properly, and you shot him a glare, “What did you expect after the stunt you pulled?”

Sherlock looked away to continue his pouting and you turned back to John, “Did you bring the sociopathic twat just to punish me?”

Your brother quickly shook his head, “He wanted to come.”

“Figures,” you grumbled. Had you looked at him, you would have caught the hint of distress and sadness Sherlock’s eyes before he snapped at John that he hadn’t wanted to come. They began to argue, John indirectly scolding you in the process, and you shifted to the other side of the desk with your back to them, fixing the strap of your dress and crossing your legs neatly to wait to be freed.

Your keen hearing picked up Lestrade’s reentrance with Donovan and Anderson in tow, babbling about whatever he’d been called away for. Terribly bored and sketchbook-less, you tuned in to Lestrade’s voice, “Unidentified male. Late twenties to early thirties. Dark hair, dyed, and green eyes. Lean build. Quite tall. Distinguishing features- a tattoo on his left rib cage of a balloon vendor with a top hat, another on his shou-“

You cut him off abruptly, “Did you say a balloon vendor? Is one of the balloons a purple balloon animal in the shape of a poodle?”

You’d slipped off the desk during his description, a deep-set frown on your face, and now everyone turned to stare at you as Lestrade gave you a surprised look, “Yes, actually… How did you know that?”

You shook your head, carefree attitude discarded as you set your jaw in denial, your thoughts racing, “I need to see the body… Would somebody please uncuff me from this bloody chair?”

The PC protested that the paperwork wasn’t done from across the room and you rolled your eyes in frustration, pulling a bobby pin from your hair, “I’ve had about enough of this.”

John understood now why you had two sets of cuffs when Lestrade let out a heavy but unsurprised sigh, watching you unlocked both with scary speed and then rub at your wrist as Sherlock demanded, “Where’s the body?”

Lestrade gave in, used to the complete confusion that came with Sherlock and his ‘associates,’ “Just arrived at St. Bart’s less than an hour ago. Molly should be doing the autopsy now.”

Grabbing John’s hand and your things from a nearby table, you stalked off without any further explanation and called a cab to take you to the morgue.


	53. Chapter 53

Neither Sherlock nor John bothered asking you anything in the cab as the expression on your face told them you were deep in thought, similar to when you were sketching or observing something intently.

You looked out the window flatly, your heart screaming that it was just a really unfortunate coincidence and your brain pointing out just how unlikely that was while you kept your body turned away from Sherlock, still upset at him. Sherlock sensed your inner conflict, having deduced exactly what this was about the moment you questioned Lestrade, and was now quietly fretting over you as he continued to pout over the fact that you were mad at him. John just looked between the two of you, wondering what had even happened for you to behave this way towards each other, and then huffed and looked out the window as he tried to figure out who you thought was in the morgue. All in all, it was probably the second worst cab ride ever, with the first being just after Sherlock had kissed you in front of John.

Arriving at the morgue, you stole Sherlock’s role of leaving everyone in the dust as he stalked off in a huff, sweeping out of the cab and towards the morgue at a pace that John had to jog slightly to keep up with. You startled Molly when you burst through the door just as she was gearing up to slice open her John Doe’s chest and your heart fell, the world seeming to stand still for a second. You abruptly interrupted whatever conversation Molly had started with your two cohorts, “Timothy Ares.”

“What?” Molly said as everyone fell silent and you stepped forward to look down at the body, “The name of your John Doe is Timothy Ares. From the blood we found… he died nearly a week ago which would mean someone kept him on ice until now. Either to keep him from being identified or to send some sort of message… I don’t know.”

He looked very different from when you last saw him- he was thinner and his face was sunken. The chestnut flop of hair you remembered was dyed a smooth shade of black, showing hints of grey around his temples, and he had a short beard. He’d obviously been troubled. You shook your head and gave a fleeting glance to the numerous slash marks across his stomach. What a slow and tortuous way to die. John approached you cautiously, not wanting to set you off, “Are you sure, Squeak? It’s been a while since you-“

“I designed that tattoo for him, John,” you nodded to the colorful piece on his ribs, closing your eyes for a moment, “My initials are hidden in the vendor’s top hat. It’s him.”

You turned away to look at Molly before opening them again, “Would you mind if I was the one to notify his parents? They live in Digne and speak only French.”

Your friend shook her head and you whispered a thank you before just sort of drifting out of the room and into the hall. John moved to follow you but Sherlock stopped him, “Stay with Molly and observe the autopsy for anything unusual. I need to speak with (F/n).”

Your brother shook his head, “No, Sherlock. She’s already angry with you and she’s had a shock, I don’t need you making it any worse.”

Sherlock ignored him, slipping out into the hallway before John could stop him to find you with your arm against the wall, your forehead pressed against it as you took a few deep breaths to try and calm yourself and a sudden wave of nausea. He took a step closer to you, reaching out a hand only to let it fall, “(F/n)?”

“What do you want, Sherlock?” you huffed softly, not moving from your position.

There was a long period of silence as he sorted through his thoughts. It had taken him a while but he now understood why you were upset with him. He’d been so caught up in his smug satisfaction over having gotten you to paint again combined with a sort of daze as he relived bits of your night together that he hadn’t realized how cold his words must have sounded.

He’d been slowly drawing out your emotions, getting you to trust him, and letting your interest in each other grow into something more because he wanted to explore his own feelings. Referring to it as an experiment was the only way he could wrap his head around it without scoffing but the feelings were real.

You didn’t know that.

How could you with the way he acted?

Sherlock knew from the start you’d just thought he was curious and he’d left it that way since you didn’t seem to mind but he’d pushed you with what he’d said and you’d broken. Once he considered that, it was no surprise that you’d responded the way you had, especially with your past.

Now, on top of all that, you’d been forced to face the fact that you’d lost a friend in the most sobering of ways and he calculated that it was only a matter of time before you fell prey to the grief. It had been too long a day for you not to. With all this in mind, he took another step towards you and rested a hand on your shoulder, “I’m sorry, (F/n).”

You startled, looking up at him to search his face very carefully for any signs of deception or anything other than complete sincerity, and, finding none, closed the gap between the two of you to rest your head on his chest. You didn’t have the energy to be fully mad at him and, with the rarity of what he’d just done, you simply couldn’t do it anymore. He pulled a face at having to do the comforting thing but still wrapped his arms around you, resting his cheek on top of your head when he felt you start to cry.

He quickly decided that he hated it when you cried, it wrenched his chest into a tight knot and made him long to hear your laugh or see your smile. Smartly, he kept his mouth shut this time and just held you. It wouldn’t do to upset you again with some of the deductions and thoughts running through his head, not only about this situation but about your friend back in the other room. He let go when you gently tugged away, wiping your tears with your palm hurriedly before letting out a sigh and looking up at him, “Why do you think they waited to leave the body to be found? Why even leave it at all? We already assumed he was dead from the start and it would have been beneficial for them to stash it away.”

“I have six theories- none of them for certain. I need to think… Come. Let’s collect John.”

Sherlock’s suspicions as to your current mental state were confirmed when you didn’t catch his lie or question him as you normally would but instead just nodded and let out a shaky breath. You were tired and emotionally overwhelmed with all that had happened- the hurt he’d caused with his words, the episode in the salsa club, being arrested, and now your renewed sense of grief. In reality, he only had two theories and he didn’t like either one of them. What he really needed to think about were solutions.

You tried to stifle a sniffle and he frowned before hesitantly offering you his hand, causing you to blink up at him as if asking if he was sure.

He rolled his eyes and huffed, “Do you want it or not?”

You quickly nodded, taking it without questioning any further, and let his fingers weave comfortingly between yours as he thought again about how perfectly they fit together. He turned, giving you a little tug back in the direction of the morgue, and slipped through the door with you in tow, bluntly announcing, “John. We’re leaving.”

Your brother looked up from where he was with Molly and was visibly surprised to see that you’d not only come back in with Sherlock but that your hands were connected before he noticed you’d been crying. He gave Molly a quick nod goodbye and came to pull you into a hug, which you returned with only one arm as you were unwilling to release Sherlock’s hand. Stepping back to cup your cheek and wipe away a stray tear, John pressed a quick kiss to your temple as he murmured, “Let’s go home. I’ll call Annie and tell her you’re sick.”

You just nodded and gave a small yawn before waving goodbye to Molly as Sherlock pulled you away and John followed, gently herding you out to the street and into a cab.


	54. Chapter 54

“Oh no you don’t.” John gently scolded when you all arrived back at the flat and you tried to unlock your door- your hands shaking as they fumbled with the keys. You brother pulled them out of your hands and used his other hand to carefully encourage you towards the stairs, “I know you, Squeak. If I allow you to stay down here it will end in one of two ways and neither of them is good.”

You opened your mouth to protest but he cut you off, reading your mind, “You can borrow some night clothes from me and whatever jumper you’d like. Up you go.”

There was no point in arguing, he was in full big brother protective mode, so you just shuffled up the stairs, following Sherlock as John made sure you didn’t try to go back down. You collapsed into John’s chair, throwing your legs over one of the arms, and Sherlock, having noted that your shoes were rubbing painfully a long while ago, reached to pull them off. He found your feet quickly out of his grasp as you shot him a glare and growled, “I can do it myself.”

He looked adorably confused for a moment but you just scowled and leaned over to unstrap the red heels from your aching feet. It took him a few blinks to realize you were still upset which confused him even more and he defeatedly flopped down on the couch just as John emerged from his room with a bundle of clothes. You took it from him without a word and padded away to change, bathroom door shutting with a little more force than necessary behind you. John looked worriedly after you before turning back to Sherlock to demand, “Alright. Enough of this. You need to tell me what happened.”

There was a period of silence as John waited for some sort of answer with his arms crossed before Sherlock finally decided he didn’t really have very many other options, “I may have misspoken about something important.”

John sighed, “So nothing new then… Did you explain to her what you really meant?”

“I apologized.” Sherlock grumbled and John gaped at him for a second, “You apologized…?”

“Yes, John. That is what I just said, isn’t it? I know it’s difficult for you to process things but could you at least try to keep up?”

John rolled his eyes with a huff, reminding himself that he was doing this for you and not the difficult twat in front of him, “Alright so the great Sherlock Holmes apologized… did you tell her why you were apologizing?” 

There was a pause before Sherlock begrudgingly admitted, “No.”

John rubbed at his brow in frustration, wondering how exactly he could explain to Sherlock why doing so was important before venturing an attempt, “You can’t just apologize and expect everything to go back to normal. She needs to know why you were apologizing… it’s like… you wouldn’t wrap up a case by just saying someone is a criminal without giving a full display of your deductions, would you?”

Something seemed to click and Sherlock sat up to lace his fingers underneath his chin, “So you’re saying it’s not enough to be sorry… I also have to explain why? Your sister is not an idiot, John. She is perfectly capable of figuring that out on her own.”

“How are you so… so… DENSE?” John seethed lowly, “If you don’t say what it is you are apologizing for you could be apologizing for anything and even if she did figure it out, there are some things that need to be said aloud to actually have an effect.”

Sherlock rolled to face the back of the couch, displeased with John’s advice, and went back to trying to come up with his own solution to this problem while John let out an exasperated sigh and went to make tea for when you came back.

In the bathroom, you slid off your dress, letting it fall to the floor, before taking a wet towel to your face and neck to get rid of the make up you’d used to cover your choke bruises. You traced the love bite Sherlock had left you with a finger before tying back your hair into a sloppy ponytail and splashing water over your face with a heavy sigh.

There was too much going on in your head for you to think clearly. You weren’t a genius like Sherlock who could compartmentalize everything and handle the multitude of things that were thrown at him in a blink- you were normal. That was all… just normal. You couldn’t handle so many things in the course of one day without feeling like you were drowning.

You almost wished that John didn’t know you so well and he’d just left you alone with your thoughts. Ultimately, he was right- if he had you would have either torn apart your apartment and then lain on the floor in the mess or started painting almost frantically in an attempt to deal with your thoughts and stayed that way for days. You tugged on the shirt and sweatpants John had given you and then the cream jumper he knew you loved, burying your face in the front of it to deeply breath in the familiar scent. What would you do without John?

Padding out to join them again, you sat down at the living room table, pulling your feet up to sit cross-legged as you flipped open your sketchbook. John pursed his lips when he saw you, thinking that you should rest, but he knew better than to disturb you when you were drawing and just set your cup of tea next to you. He stroked your hair lightly and then pressed a kiss to the top of your bent head, “Try not to stay up too much longer, Squeak. You’ve had a long day.”

You mumbled something that sounded like, “Night, Johnny,” as you grabbed an array of pencils to try and find the one you wanted and John slipped off to his room with a yawn. Sherlock shifted on the couch so he could watch you work, noting that this was a different level of sketching than what he’d seen from you before with you hastily switching pencils as you moved across the paper, and then closed his eyes to block out the rising sun and think.

After a few hours and numerous, highly detailed drawings, Sherlock was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of your pencil point snapping from the intense pressure you were putting on the paper. You huffed, using the interruption of your work to flex your hand with a slight grimace before trying to find your pencil sharpener with the other. He narrowed his eyes when you started up again but with your non-dominant hand, cradling the one you’d been using in your lap. He got up and grabbed it before you could do anything to stop him.

You blinked at him angrily through the haze of your thoughts as he slipped into the chair next to you, taking your hand in both of his in a way that demanded your attention. He pressed the pads of his thumbs firmly into your palm and you gave a pained gasp, trying to pull away from him as he started to rub circles across the appendage’s sore muscles. You relaxed after a moment when he got past the immediate stiffness and he lifted his eyes to look at you, “He left more scars on you than I originally thought.”

You shifted uncomfortably, letting him keep your hand as you turned back to continue with your work, “It’s not a scar, Sherlock. It just gets stiff sometimes.”

He moved to your fingers, gently tracing one before pressing his thumb against it just above the bottom joint. You squeaked, attempting to pull away again, but he kept a firm grip on your hand. Loosening it when you gave up, he traced each of your fingers as he quietly hummed, “Multiple fractures in every finger… the internal scaring is obviously extensive. It’s no wonder it bothers you.”

You didn’t bother to ask how he’d known what your ex had done to your hand, setting down your pencil to look at him with sudden seriousness, “What do you want from me, Sherlock?”

He looked down at your hand in silence for a moment, sandwiching it between his before flatly stating, “Patience.”

Looking up to see you tilting your head at him in tired confusion, he continued, “I’m aware that at times I can be… insensitive… and I’ll admit that this is an experiment but not in the way you think. I’m curious about how I react to anything involving you… everything I do with you is an experiment because I’ve never attempted it before and as such can only hypothesize what the outcome may be. The only thing that I can say for certain is that it is not nor will it ever be my intent to hurt you.”

There was a tense moment as you blinked to try and process that and then you sighed, rubbing at your temple, “I’m more than willing to be patient, Sherly, but you did hurt me. I think maybe we should take a step back…”

 

He moved a hand to cup your cheek and you inadvertently leaned into his touch, causing him to smirk as you sleepily hummed, “That’s not playing fair, Sherlock.”

Pulling you up with very little resistance, he murmured, “All’s fair in love and war, darling,” before stretching out on the couch and tugging you to his chest. Too exhausted to try and fight it or to even verbally protest, you just snuggled into him and slipped off into a dreamless sleep.


	55. Chapter 55

John didn’t expect to find you pressed against Sherlock’s chest when he came down to get something to eat, in fact, he rather expected to find you still drawing in the same position he’d left you. It caused some mixed emotions in him. In a way, he was relieved that Sherlock had somehow managed to pull you from that so you could get some rest but at the same time, it made his skin crawl. His baby sister snuggling with his unusual flatmate seemed so… wrong.

You roused and rolled off of Sherlock and to the floor with a loud thump, bringing your hands up to rub your face as you stared at the ceiling for a bit before John gently coaxed, “Are you alright, (F/n)?”

“No,” came your simple, honest reply and John came to look down at you as you stated, “He didn’t deserve to die, John… especially not like that.”

“Everyone dies, (F/n).” Sherlock hummed flatly, having been drawn out of his thoughts when your warmth left his body.

“Sherlock!” John hissed, watching you roll to your side to curl up in a ball with a soft whimper of sadness before setting in to scold Sherlock as he sank to the floor to pull you to him. You let him, snuggling into his neck as you grumbled, “Leave him be, Johnny, he’s right, but it doesn’t mean the living hurt any less.”

Sherlock looked over just as you buried your face into John’s jumper, your shoulders shaking as you finally broke down and quietly wept on him, “H-He was my f-f-friend, John. He knew h-he was going to d-die… if-if I h-had gone to seeee him when he a-asked- If I-I hadn’t put it offff- I c-could have h-h-helped.”

Your brother wrapped his arms around you as tightly as he could, stroking the back of your hair with one hand, “No you couldn’t have. He was already in too deep, (F/n). You would have only gotten yourself into trouble… The kind I can’t bail you out of.”

A deep frown settled on Sherlock’s face as your quiet sniffles turned to full-blown sobs, his chest feeling so tight it was like he couldn’t breathe, but he was relieved, glad even, that John was handling it. His mind referred him back to Mycroft’s tome of ‘caring is not an advantage’ as he witnessed just what caring reduced you to. If you were this broken up by the death of an old friend you hadn’t seen in years, then you’d be more than incapacitated if you lost say, John… or perhaps even him.

He briefly wondered how he would react if anything happened to you or your brother… for even if he was unwilling to admit it, he was certainly attached to you both.

His Watsons.

He shoved the dreadful thought from his mind, assuring himself that nothing would change should something unfortunate happen… not that he would ever allow something to happen. He supposed that was the true problem. How far would he go to keep both of you safe?

When he looked over at you again, you’d quieted considerably with John’s nose tucked in your hair as you let out small hiccups. Sherlock could tell John disliked it as much as he did when you cried, the man looking pained as he rubbed your back softly. You carefully separated yourself from your brother, pausing to give him a kiss on the cheek as you whispered, “Thank you, John,” before moving back to your seat at the table to wind your fingers around a pencil. You needed to think, to remember, it was the only way you could move on and for you, the only way to do that was to sketch.

You spent the next three days in almost complete silence, borrowing more of John’s clothes and spending hours on end drawing in a chair by the window in something similar to Sherlock’s post-case sulking but without the whining or condescending statements. John knew this was your way of dealing with loss and was just glad that he’d managed to avoid you going through one of your destructive fits or locking yourself away. He also noticed that you seemed to have forgiven Sherlock since you weren’t completely ignoring him and he on occasion made you tea or pulled your hand into his to relieve the tension. Neither of them pushed you to talk or move, giving you time to process everything and come to terms with it. Something you greatly appreciated.

Other than your silent presence, things in 221B pretty much went back to normal- John worked a handful of shifts at the clinic in between updating his blog and Sherlock busied himself with an experiment that involved removing the corneas from human eyeballs and shining different colored and wattage of lights through them. John thought it was odd and a little disgusting but was numb to it and you observed it with a kind of quiet curiosity, no doubt putting what you saw down in your sketchbook.

On the fourth day, John got up to find you sitting on the couch, dressed in your own clothes, staring at your mobile phone on the coffee table with your hands intertwined over your mouth in nervous thought. You looked up for a second, offering a distracted, “Morning, Johnny,” before going back to staring at your phone and he raised an eyebrow at you, “Feeling better, Squeak?”

“I guess so, yeah,” you huffed before scooping up the phone and quickly dialing a number, drumming your fingers on your leg as you waited for someone to pick up. John moved to the kitchen but could hear you take a deep breath before offering a solemn, “Bonjour, Madame Ares. C’est (F/n). Je crains de mauvaises nouvelles.”

He could only assume that what came after was a brief explanation of what had happened and you offering condolences before giving them Lestrade’s number and ending the call with a soft, “Je suis désolé pour votre perte. Au revoir.”

You were just setting down your phone when John sank down on the couch next to you and offered you a much-needed cup of tea, “You alright?”

Taking the tea, you let out a huff of air, staring at the space in front of you for a moment before looking over at him to nod, “Yeah. I think I am. Thanks, Johnny.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and kissed your temple before getting up to sit at the table with the paper and his laptop, “Have you seen the camera? I wanted to upload some of the photos we took on the last case.”

You joined him at the table, stealing a section of the newspaper as you hummed, “I haven’t but Sherlock destroyed the memory chip the day before last so I think you’ll have to do without.”

John groaned, wondering how exactly his flatmate had managed that, and for the first time in a few days you chuckled, reaching over to ruffle his hair before getting up to retrieve your sketchbook as you offered, “If it means that much to you, I can scan in some of my sketches and you can use those.”

You opened your sketchbook to the pages from the case he was referring to and handed it to him as he raised an eyebrow, “You’d let me?”

“Why not?” you shrugged indifferently, taking your empty cup back to the kitchen while John looked over the pages, calling, “These are even better than the photos. I’d love to use them.”

Appearing to lean on the kitchen doorframe, you looked over your section of the newspaper as you stated, “I’ll scan them and email them to you before I leave for work.”

“You’re going back to work?”

“Have to pay my rent somehow,” you sighed, returning the newspaper to the table before giving your brother quick side hug, “Speaking of which, I have to go get ready… I’ll give a yell when I leave.”

He gave you a small grin and handed your sketchbook back, “Alright, Squeak. Have a good day and thank you for the sketches.”

Sherlock still wasn’t up by the time you had to leave and John was happily adding your sketches to his blog so you called out a quick farewell and slipped out the door. Annie wasn’t there when you got to the café, which was how you’d expected it since she was dealing with her own grief over Timmy and you’d offered to watch over the place while she took a day.

What you didn’t expect was a small red envelope to be sitting in the cubby you normally stashed your stuff in. Scooping it up to run your fingers over the stiff crimson paper, you opened it and pulled out a crisp white card with swirling black lettering on it that simply read, “I. O. U. –M”

You shrugged, stowing it away in your bag as you assumed it was from Mycroft referring to the favor he’d done you of getting you out of trouble, and went about your day at work. By the end of the day, you’d forgotten all about the mysterious little card, leaving it tucked away in the front of your sketchbook, and didn’t think about it again for a long time.


	56. Chapter 56

You jumped when, as usual, the door to your flat was flung open but this time you’d taken preventative action. The door hit the bumper you’d installed and bounced back to hit Sherlock’s shoulder and side with almost as much force as he’d used to fling it open. You tried really hard to stifle a giggle as he stumbled back, giving the door a death glare before turning to you to accuse, “You installed a bumper.”

You shrugged going back the painting you were working on as you articulated, “If you would stop throwing my door open like a crazed maniac, things like that wouldn’t happen.”

He huffed in annoyance but turned his attention to your flat, taking in all the sketches and drawings of various sizes that covered every flat surface and wall of your living room. It had been a good couple of months since he’d seen it with a series of back-to-back cases keeping both him and John busy and you working two jobs in addition to painting. You occasionally went out with them for cases but letting John use your sketches on his blog, something that you now did on a regular basis, had garnered you a job as a freelance illustrator for a publishing company in town and the majority of your time was spent between the café and meeting deadlines.

Sherlock didn’t like it at all but you had said you wanted to take a step back and he was trying to respect that since he felt bad for hurting you. It had been rather easy to avoid you with the cases he’d been working and your busy schedule, even if it put him in a bad mood and John found him insufferable. In fact, the few times that you had gone with them had been after a considerable amount of pleading on John’s part and your own guilt over the fact that the arguments in 221B had doubled since you’d taken the illustrating job.

You missed them both terribly despite the fact that you were glad for a bit of a break from your thing with Sherlock. It gave you time to think it over without him confusing you, which in the end really just resulted in you realizing that you missed him to the point of it almost being painful. It was a fairly miserable situation for all of you but you were determined to be in a place where you didn’t have to worry about choosing between buying groceries and paying rent.

Sherlock stepped over to one of your bookshelves where each shelf had a series of drawings pinned to it depicting the adventures of a pink rabbit that was shaped like a very adorable jellybean- your latest assignment from the publishing company.

“How long?” you hummed, not looking up from your painting, and he flopped down in your chair as he whined, “Six hours and thirty-seven minutes.”

Setting your brush in the container of water, you spun on your stool to look at him, “And John doesn’t have anything from his blog for you?”

“He went to Sarah’s an hour ago, grumbling about how I was being insufferable or some other ridiculous nonsense… and he hid the gun and my cigarettes. Will you make me tea?”

Your lips twitched into a small smile as you slid off your stool, “Of course,”

He followed you to the kitchen as you stretched your arms over your head, “You’ve been working full days and painting at night every day for nearly a week now. The people at your publishing job are pleased with your work since they’ve given you three more projects to work on within the course of two weeks and they pay you well enough for you to have replaced a few empty tubes of paint and a brush but not so well that you can leave your work at the café. You miss the adventure and potential conflict of coming along with me and John on-“

You sighed, for once not really in the mood for his deductions, and bounced up to press a quick chaste kiss to his lips, “I miss you, genius.”

It successfully shut him up as a sprinkling of pink dusted across his pale cheeks and his fingers came up to press at his lips, it was the first time you’d kissed since the whole ‘experiment’ incident and the first time you’d ever initiated the kiss instead of waiting for him to come to you. He reveled in the high he’d been missing for a moment as you went back to making tea and then wrapped himself around you from behind, resting his chin on your head, “I’m bored.”

“I’m aware. How about an experiment? Molly said she had some leftover kidneys from a class in the morgue… I’m sure she’d be happy if you took them off her hands.”

You could literally feel him pull a face before leaning over to purr in your ear, “I can think of better ways to stave off the boredom if you’re willing.”

You pushed him back gently, knowing exactly what he wanted, and slipped the cup of tea in his hands with a firm, “No.”

He followed you back into the living room to whine, “But (F/n)-“

“No, Sherlock.” 

You sat back down on your stool and picked up a paintbrush just as he pouted, “But I’m bored. You know it only gets worse.”

You sighed, considering that before setting down the brush again as you decided to give him what he wanted, “Fine. You win. Go get Cluedo.”

He jumped up almost gleefully to grab your arm, “We can play upstairs. I can’t have you getting distracted by your work.”

You let out a mirthful laugh, bounding up the stairs with him to flop down on the couch while he set up the board on the coffee table, you’d needed a break anyways. You turned your cheek to look at him, “Remind me again why Johnny told me never to play this game with you?”

“That would be because John is an idiot,” Sherlock stated giving a tiny smirk and you chuckled, “It’s a good thing I don’t listen to him then.”

Sherlock offered you a full grin and you slid off the couch to sit on the floor across from him, letting him take the first turn as you began the game. John came home the next morning to find you both still sitting at the coffee table engaged in an intense game of Cluedo. John just sort of gaped for a moment, watching you giggle as Sherlock moved his game piece across the board, both of you so focused you hadn’t noticed him come in.

The sight in front of him was truly astounding, not only were you playing Cluedo without arguing but it seemed that at some point during the many rounds you’d played the two of you had devised and added more cards and game pieces to modify how the game was played. Sherlock suddenly gave you an intense look as he exclaimed, “I suggest that Mr. Bloom murdered Professor Plum in the office with a syringe of poison. The motive I give is Plum was developing a serum that would put Bloom out of business.”

You tweaked your lips to the side in thought and then countered, “I agree with your accusation, location, and weapon but I believe there is more to your motive.”

Sherlock folded his hands beneath his chin in thought as he hummed, “Explain.”

“I suggest the motive to be a payment from an interested party, namely Mycroft, for eliminating Professor Plum and thereby halting his research into bioweaponry for Russia, his true country of origin.”

Sherlock gave a small proud smirk, “Agreed. The points for motive go to you… but I’m still winning.”

“Only by two hundred points,” you huffed, puffing your cheeks out, and he chuckled before eagerly asking, “Another round?”

John cleared his throat and you startled, turning to blink up at him before giving a wide grin, “Hey, Johnny… Sherlock said you were staying at Sarah’s.”

“I did,” John confirmed, cocking an eyebrow at you, “It’s nearly nine in the morning, Squeak.”

You and Sherlock both gave him a dumbfounded look, “What?”

“How long have you two been at this?” John wondered, giving a soft chuckle at how caught up in the game you’d both gotten.

“Nearly twelve hours,” Sherlock offered distractedly, wondering how exactly you’d managed to keep him from the boredom for that long, and you sighed as you flopped down on the floor with a yawn, “No wonder I’m so tired all the sudden.”

“Don’t you have work soon,” John worried, stepping closer to survey your game, “And I’m pretty sure that all of this is against the rules.”

You sat up to look at him, “You know I’ve never been one for rules, John… and I have the week off from the café. Figured it was time for a bit of a break.”

“Good because I refuse to play Cluedo with him ever again and I’d rather he didn’t shoot the walls, as would Mrs. Hudson.”

“What do you have against Cluedo, Johnny?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, offering an answer for him, “He says it’s not possible for the victim to have done it.”

You tilted your head as you frowned at your brother, “Why not? Sherlock’s reasoning seemed perfectly sound to me.”

John clenched his jaw and then snapped, “Because it’s not in the rules!”

“The rules are wrong, John!” Sherlock snapped back and you had to stifle a giggle as they began to argue over it and you got up to make yourself some tea, stretching your legs before moving towards the kitchen. You had just leaned against the counter to inhale the steam from your tea when the arguing abruptly stopped and Sherlock loudly announced, “I’ve been summoned.”

John appeared in the doorway to the kitchen a second later with a pleading look on his face and you chuckled, “Relax John. You couldn’t keep me from coming if you tried.”

Within minutes the three of you were out of the flat, you and John tailing a very enthusiastic looking Sherlock down the street as you all felt a sense of relief that everything was as it should be.


	57. Chapter 57

It took a considerable amount of will power for you not to touch anything and everything when the three of you arrived at the crime scene: the backstage of a West End theater. There were costumes, props, and sets everywhere and you were quick to fall into your curious observation mode, slowing your pace considerably to take it all in. You were just about to wander off towards a very interesting looking dress covered with sequins on a rack across the way when Sherlock sharply stated, “Hand.”

You froze and blinked at him in confusion, “What?”

“Give me your hand,” he demanded impatiently and you pursed your lips at him, “Why should I?”

He rolled his eyes and grabbed your hand before you could pull away, John looking on in interested amusement, “Because I can’t have you wandering off like I know you were just about to. Now come on.”

Dragging your feet so that he had to tug you the rest of the way to your destination, you whined, “I’m not a child, Sherlock. I would have caught up.”

Sherlock ignored you and you pouted at John, who just shook his head and chuckled, following after the two of you, “It’s for your own good, Squeak. Remember what happened last time you wandered off at a crime scene?”

You pulled a face but picked up your feet as you grumbled, “Fine,” and took the opportunity to lace your fingers with Sherlock’s, an action that turned John’s expression to a scowl. The two of you stepped into the dressing room where the body was, Lestrade raising an eyebrow at your connected state before you used your free hand to tug on Sherlock’s sleeve, looking up at him, “Can I look around now? I highly doubt there’s some thug lurking with all of Lestrade’s team about and I promise I’ll stay in this room.” 

 

Giving you a look that said you’d better or there would be consequences, he set your hand free and you skirted around the body to examine something that had caught your eye on the other side of the room, leaving Sherlock his space to look at the body. Lestrade stepped over next to John, nodding in your direction, “Any idea what’s going on there?”

“Yes and no,” John sighed, “There’s some sort of relationship between them but I don’t think even they know what it is.”

“And you’re okay with-“

“John,” Sherlock interjected in a demanding tone and John shrugged at Lestrade before going to see what he wanted. He soon saw why Sherlock had called him, crouching down next to the body to get a better look at the few areas of skin that had been removed, “This was done postmortem… there’s not enough blood otherwise and I don’t think the body has been moved. Why would somebody take his skin?”

“Is it possible we’ve got a Hannibal?” you wondered aloud and John gave you a quizzical look, “A what?”

“Hannibal Lecter? You know… Hannibal the Cannibal. Skin is a delicacy in some cultures.”

Your brother looked a bit perturbed, glancing back at the body with a new sense of disgust, and Sherlock shook his head, “A cannibal wouldn’t leave the rest of the body… It’s more likely that it was for some sort of experiment. I sometimes use skin in my work.”

You shrugged, “The locations of the wounds are where the skin is likely to be most tender and not toughened by the elements… who’s to say cannibals can’t be picky eaters? It was just a thought.”

Sherlock considered this as you turned to Lestrade who was standing with his mouth a little agape at the conversation he’d just witnessed, “Did your team remove anything from this room before we got here?”

Lestrade shook his head, “No. We left everything as is.”

Sherlock stood, fixing his usual demanding gaze on you, “What do you see?”

You pursed your lips, “It might be nothing…”

“It’s never nothing, (F/n).” John assured, joining the three of you, and you continued, “He seems like a proud man, a little narcissistic but what actor isn’t, and extremely organized, likely a mental tick or mild OCD, yet there is a piece of his costume missing- the hat. I don’t think it was simply misplaced- he wouldn’t have allowed that- but there’s a chance that it needed repair or alteration and is being kept elsewhere in the theater. I didn’t see it in the immediate area when we walked in but I also didn’t get a chance to explore further.”

“The killer could have taken it as a souvenir,” John offered and Sherlock flatly demanded, “Make sure it isn’t here, Lestrade. I need to speak with his castmates,” and strode out.

You and John followed him out to find the other main cast members- a tall ranting man, a weeping woman with long auburn locks, and a short distraught looking teenage boy.

Sherlock paused, formulating a plan as you let out a soft groan, “I hate actors. So hard to get an accurate read.”

You stepped up beside him, letting your eyes take in all that you could see from the three before giving a smirk and shaking your head, “Sherlock-”

“I see it. You take him, I’ll take her,” he hummed, stalking off towards them and leaving you to explain to John as you nodded toward the kid, “Just be sympathetic.”

Sherlock ‘accidentally’ knocked over a rack of costumes into a table with props right next to the ranting man, the sound of shattering ceramic resounding in the air as a number of props clattered to the floor. The result was instantaneous with the actor ceasing his rant to screech at Sherlock about respect for the theater and his profession and so on.

You were quick to sweep in between the two of them grabbing Sherlock’s ear and yanking him down to you as growled, “Didn’t I tell you to keep your clumsy feet away from anything that could be broken? These people work for hours on end to create magic night after night. I expect you to respect them and their tools… Apologize.”

“Save it. The damage is already done,” the tall actor hissed, storming off in tiff to yell at someone to fix it, and Sherlock gave you a discreet smirk before you turned to follow him, playing the understanding fan as you called apologies after him.

John approached Sherlock, who was rubbing his ear with a dejected look on his face, “She can get a little passionate about things like this- the artistic side you know… Are you alright?”

The weeping woman interrupted before Sherlock could answer, revealing an American accent, “I’m sorry that jerk got you in trouble with her… He takes everything too seriously. It’s not like the show can go on without our departed castmate anyways.”

“It’s quite alright,” Sherlock hurried, playing up his British accent as he rummaged through his pockets with very convincing mock nervousness to find a tissue to offer her, “That’s a terrible shame. I’m sure you would have stolen the stage, Miss…”

“Grommer. Natalie Grommer,” she supplied in a purr, taking it from him as her demeanor changed, the fake tears immediately disappearing.

“The stage lights would have loved those cheekbones of yours,” she hummed as she extended a hand to him, which he took, leaning to press a kiss to her knuckles as she giggled, “And a gentleman to boot.”

A slightly astounded John watched as Sherlock escorted her to a quieter corner and the stunned look on his face drew the attention of the teen just like you’d planned, “I sorry about them… they’re really good at their jobs but they don’t really care about the murder. They’re just peeved that the show is off now that we’re a cast member short.”

“And you?” John asked, giving the boy a sympathetic smile, finally understanding what you’d meant, “Do you care?”

The boy’s lip trembled as he nodded, “He was my friend…”

The three of you talked to your respective actors for a moment until you returned to rescue Sherlock from the very handsy Natalie with a snapped, “Holmes!” that gave John an excuse to leave his conversation with the teen. They fell into step next to you as you stalked out and John asked, “Where are we going exactly?”

“Home,” you and Sherlock said in sync and you rubbed your temple with a soft sigh as you expanded, “It wasn’t any of them, though that was fairly obvious from the start. We just had to be sure… actors can be emotionally tricky.”

Sherlock snorted, “They claim to be masters of deception yet they so easily believed us. Idiots,” and then launched into his deductions, “It was someone he knew from the lack of struggle. Killer has a knowledge of and access to some sort of fast-acting poison, likely administered with a needle, as well as skill with a scalpel. With the missing hat, it is likely that they are either a practiced methodical killer or have some sort of emotional connection to the victim. Not family. He has no living family. Possibly a partner. He’s gay. Closet case…”

He continued but dropped to a mumble as the three of you slid into a cab and you leaned against John with a soft yawn as he huffed, “How do you do that?”

“Do what, Johnny?”

“Know what he’s thinking.”

You chuckled, “I have no idea what he’s thinking, John. I just assume he sees what I see and then read his face. If anything he knows what I’m thinking or maybe we just think similarly in certain situations… I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“I suppose not,” he murmured, winding an arm around your shoulder and pressing a kiss against your temple as you snuggled into his side sleepily. Seeing the two of you in action and finally noticing your ability to communicate by just looking at each other, got John wondering about your relationship. He thought about it for a moment, considering that maybe the two of you were more suited for each other than he’d originally determined, before resting his cheek on your head as he fought off a headache.


	58. Chapter 58

The next few days involved lots of running around and Sherlock pacing or thinking while you and John unsuccessfully tried to convince him to eat and sleep. It got to the point that you and John left him to work on his own out of both frustration and exhaustion- John going out with Sarah or holing up in his room, you escaping to your flat to paint or catch up on some work, and both of you visiting Mrs. Hudson.

Today was a relatively quiet one. Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the couch cross-legged with his hands folded over his lips as if in prayer, the case papers spread out on the coffee table in front of him, John was in his chair with a mug of coffee and his laptop, and you were in Sherlock’s chair with your back against the seat and your legs draped over the back of it, your head hanging upside down over the edge as you stared off into space. That was how all three of you remained for hours until Sherlock stirred and came out of his thoughts, needing a couple of nicotine patches. His eye flicked open and the low rumble of a soft chuckle broke the silence in the room when his eyes found you, causing John to look up as well before giving his own chuckle.

You’d fallen asleep upside down with one arm stretched out over your head and the back of your other hand pressed against the underside of your chin, your sketchbook balanced on your stomach. Before John could move to wake you, your phone rang and you startled awake, falling from your chair to the floor with a harsh thud followed by a groan. Despite your now sore forehead, you managed to answer your phone with a grumbled, “Bonjour.”

The person on the other end said their bit as you sat up and leaned back against the leg of the chair, rubbing at your head before sighing, “Yeah. Tomorrow at noon. Merci, Annie. I’ll give everyone your best.”

 

You hung up and then flopped to the side with a heavy groan as John knelt to offer you the ice he’d grabbed while you were on the phone, softly chuckling, “You shouldn’t sit like that, Squeak. It was just asking for trouble.”

Accepting it from him and pressing it to your forehead, you huffed, “I was quite comfortable until… that whole bloody mess. I have to go pack.”

John helped you up as Sherlock furrowed his brow at you, “You’re going somewhere tomorrow. Where?”

“I told you last week I was going to Digne for Timmy’s funeral,” you offered, rolling your eyes, and they both fixed you with a worried look, causing you to gape, “Don’t tell me you both forgot…. Oh for Heaven’s- what’s the bloody point of telling you these things if you can’t be bothered to pay attention.”

Your brother had on his serious fretting face as he firmly pushed you back down into Sherlock’s chair, “Are you sure it’s safe for you to go back there, (F/n)?”

“Ok first off, I’m going to Digne which is on the opposite side of France from Paris and secondly- I lived in Paris for six months before I moved here without any incidents. He doesn’t own France, John, and I’m fairly certain he has no way of even knowing that I’m going.”

Sherlock folded his hands beneath his chin to think and John started to pace as you let out a frustrated sigh, waiting for the argument that was no doubt brewing to begin. John abruptly stopped, “I’m going with you.”

“No, you are not,” you snapped, “I’m an adult and I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don’t need a babysitter. Besides you need to stay here and wrap up the case with Sherlock. It’s just a few days for the funeral and I’ll know people there… You are entirely overreacting.”

“Your ex was law enforcement, it’s possible he could track your whereabouts by having immigration notify him when you cross the border,” Sherlock stated and you shook your head, “I’m a dual citizen. They don’t track French passports. Not to mention he’s too daft to come up with something like that.”

John let out a frustrated growl, throwing himself down in his chair, and you stood, leaning to press a kiss to his cheek, “I’ll be fine, Johnny. I’ll phone you when I get there.”

He caught your wrist before you could pull away and looked up at you with concern shining in his eyes, “Promise?”

“Promise,” you hummed, giving him a second kiss on the forehead before ruffling his hair and turning to leave, “I’ll be downstairs packing if you need me.”

You had just shut the door to your flat, pausing for a moment to make a mental list of all the things that you needed, when it was flung open straight into your big toe. You yelped, stumbling back against the wall as you cursed, “My toe! Damn it, Sherlock. How many bloody times do I have to tell you not to sodding throw the bloody door open?!”

He was quick to slip around the slab of wood, “It wouldn’t have been a problem if you weren’t standing behind it.”

You glared up at him, finding a hint of concern in his face as he knelt to look at your toe, “It’s not broken or bleeding. You’ll be fine.”

He looked up to find you still glaring at him and he hastily added in a grumble, “But I promise I will try not to throw your door open anymore.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, letting out a resigned sigh, “Thank you… Now would you mind telling me why are you’re even here?”

“Tea,” he deadpanned, standing to look down at you, and you poked his chest, “Don’t lie to me, Sherlock.”

“I’m not-“

You shook your head, “You are. You’re making that adorable fretting face.”

“I do not have a fretting face. Even if I did, I’m obviously not fretting… and it certainly wouldn’t be adorable or cute or any variation thereof,” he huffed and you cocked an unconvinced eyebrow at him.

“I’m not fretting,” he reiterated, pursing his lips, and you pressed, “Alright so if you’re not fretting then why are you here?”

“I was just-“ he started before giving a heavy sigh and brushing the hair off your forehead to press a kiss to the mark from your chair tumble, “Don’t go. I need you on the case.”

“Not you too,” you groaned softly, rolling your eyes before winding your arms around him and pressing your cheek to his chest, “You and John are more than capable of handling things without me… I’ll be back safe and sound before you know it.”

He returned your hug with crushing strength, burying his nose in your hair, and you chuckled, “You are so fretting.”

“Am not.” He mumbled into your soft locks and you gave him an extra squeeze before pulling away with a small smirk, “You just keep telling yourself that… I need to go pack.”

He scowled at you as you scooped up a few things from the coffee table to add to your bag, trying to turn his attention back to the case by suggesting, “You know I’ve been thinking- if you’re right about the skin being used for experimentation wouldn’t the killer need a lab or at least some sort of equipment depending on the experiment? That stuff isn’t exactly run of the mill.”

You grinned to yourself as he perked up, “Brilliant! If we could track all the purchases of the equipment needed…”

He trailed off in thought, pacing momentarily before leaving your flat in favor of his, no doubt to either call Lestrade or steal John’s computer to hack some database, and you shook your head fondly before moving to your room to pack.

Despite everything, you were excited to be going back to France for a few days- it would be a nice break from the boys and you’d get to see some old friends while paying your last respects to Timmy. You neatly folded a black dress and some other things away in your bag before grabbing a few watercolors and sketches you wanted to give his parent’s, reassuring yourself that Sherlock and John were just being overprotective. Everything was going to be fine and on the off chance that it wasn’t, you could handle it on your own. You weren’t the same person as you were back then. Simple as that.


	59. Chapter 59

You were doing your pre-travel routine the next morning, checking that everything was packed, when there was a knock on your door followed by some muffled arguing before Sherlock slowly swung it open. You met them in the doorway, bouncing to press a kiss to an impatiently fidgeting Sherlock’s cheek for being kind to your door like he’d promised, “Much better. Thank you, Sherly.”

He pulled a face, rubbing at his cheek as if he was displeased, but as usual couldn’t hide the small smile over your little act of affection. John cleared his throat in disapproval, “We’ve caught a break in the case. I just wanted to say goodbye before we left.”

“Quickly, John,” Sherlock whined, tapping his foot impatiently as he looked toward the front door, and John shot him a glare before looking back to you.

“That’s fantastic!” you grinned and gave him a huge hug, “Be safe. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

“Please call as soon as you get there,” he mumbled, hugging you tightly, and you could honestly feel him worrying before you pushed him away, “I will. Now go before Sherlock has an aneurysm from having to wait.”

The man rolled his eyes, his fingers now drumming on the door handle as he stopped himself from bolting out the door and leaving John behind with only sheer willpower. John chuckled, quickly pressing a kiss to your cheek, “I love you, Squeak.”

“Love you too, Johnny,” you hummed, steering him out the door, and Sherlock let out a relieved huff as he followed, striding towards the outer door at his usual pace with your brother scrambling to follow. Watching them reach the front door, you sighed, having not really expected Sherlock to say goodbye but hoped he would all the same, and went to close the door. It stopped short in its path and you blinked in confusion, releasing your grip on it as came back towards you to reveal a very distracted looking Sherlock.

He quickly grabbed your shoulders and pulled you towards him to press his lips to yours, lingering for a moment as your lips happily responded to his, and then parted to give you a stern look, “Be observant.”

You grinned at him with a nod, “Of course,” and then he spun to grab the arm of a bewildered looking John, dragging him out of the flat at a jog to make up for lost time. In his excitement he’d almost forgotten to participate in the social convention of kissing you goodbye, remembering only when his ears picked up the soft sad sounding sigh from you. Now that that was done, he set his feet on autopilot to the destination and then hastily noted his reactions to the kiss as he always did.

It was bittersweet and he found that he didn’t like it in the slightest, knowing he wouldn’t see you for a few days put a quite a damper on his usual kissing high. On top of that, he found himself with a rather irrational sense of worry for your well being, he’d run through all the scenarios of your trip and ruled out the idea that anything might happen with his logic but still couldn’t shake the feeling.

John felt much the same, occasionally glancing back in the direction of the flat as he chased after his detective friend, and his mind wasn’t nearly as kind to him- conjuring up terrible images of what could happen to you to torment him with. He pushed them from his head forcefully, reminding himself that he himself had taught you to fight and that you were terribly resilient and observant. You’d be alright. Once that was gone, his mind focused on the path in front of him with hints of Sherlock kissing you popping up occasionally to annoy him. He didn’t think he was ever going to be able to stomach that without it feeling completely wrong.

After watching them practically bound out the door, you shook your head fondly, still grinning, and went back to your preparations before gathering your duffle bag and ever-present satchel to head off to the train station.

Standing in front of one of the large departure boards at King’s Cross station, you focused on finding your train, quickly ascertaining that you had roughly a half hour before you had to go through the international checkpoint. The extra time meant you could relax so you found a bench tucked out of the way, setting a timer on your phone before allowing your mind and eyes to wander to your surroundings.

Traveling was one of the few situations where you’d trained yourself to put all your focus on the process of the trip and not wandering off, especially with train stations. It was a sacrifice you’d deemed necessary after the Christmas of your first year of university when you’d missed your train three times because you were distracted by something or someone in the station and would have missed it a fourth had Harry not had the foresight to come retrieve you after the second train arrived without you on it. Your sister had spent the return trip helping you come up with a system to keep it from happening again, the same system you still used, and now your family could always count on you to be prompt and on time.

You made sure your ticket was tucked securely away in a reachable pocket of your satchel before putting your headphones in and reaching for your sketchbook. Your heart dropped to the floor when your hand fell on empty space. You pulled the worn bag fully into your lap and sorted through it a little frantically before letting out a distraught squeak, you’d left your sketchbook… of all the things you could have forgotten it had to be your sketchbook.

The need to draw tingling in your fingers intensified threefold in much the same fashion as an itch does when you can’t scratch it and your mind raced to find a solution before remembering that there was a small bookstore across the station. If you left now you could get there, buy a temporary replacement for the trip, and then return with just enough time to go through the checkpoint. You stood with an intense sense of focus and determination, pointing yourself in the direction of your goal and putting your mental blinders on, before setting off at a brisk pace.

Your misfortune was fantastically fortuitous for the party trying to remain unseen as they closed the space between the two of you, of all the times you could have reigned in your tendency to observe anything and everything this was probably the worst. You’d just reached the bookstore when a foreign hand found its way over your mouth and you sharply inhaled the scent of chloroform as a sickeningly familiar voice tickled your ear, “Hello (F/n), my naughty little angel. Miss me?”

Your heart raced up to your throat, trying to escape what was happening like the rest of your body desperately wished it could, and everything around you went black.


	60. Chapter 60

Glancing warily towards the door to his office, Lestrade let out a tired but content sigh, kicking his feet up on his desk to enjoy his afternoon coffee and muffin in peace. It had been a thankfully quiet few days with Sherlock on the West End case and though he was still on call for if he and John ran into trouble, the detective inspector couldn’t help but enjoy the lull in his normally hectic schedule.

He had just begun happily munching on his muffin when Donovan popped her head through his door, “We’ve got a domestic case I think you-“

“Not our division,” he called nonchalantly, taking another bite of his muffin, and you stepped into the doorway, “How about a favor for a friend then?”

His eyes went wide as he choked on the mouthful he’d just taken and you gave Sally a nod as you stepped into his office and shut the door behind you. You’d already gotten her to promise not to mention anything about this to anyone, surprising how pity can change a person’s attitude toward you. Sinking down into one of the chairs across from him with a wince, you patiently waited for him to catch his breath so he could voice his first question, “Did Sherlock do this to you?”

You shook your head vigorously as his eyes wandered over you, taking in every visible marker of pain. Both your eyes were rimmed with dark bruises and the rest of your face wasn’t any better with bruises and small cuts and scrapes patterning nearly every inch of it and your lips split in two different locations. Lestrade could see that the rest of your body was likely in a similar state given that the bruises continued down your neck to disappear under your shirt.

“It looks worse than it is. Mostly superficial. He thought he’d have time to do more,” you assured as you shifted, face looking extremely pained, and he caught a glimpse of the raw skin around your wrists as he breathed, “What happened? I thought you were supposed to leave for France yesterday.”

You looked down at your lap, unsure of how to put into words all that had occurred since the train station the day before, “I was… I ran into some trouble at the station. My ex-boyfriend sort of… abducted me.”

“How did you get here then? Do John and Sherlock know?”

“He’s a bit daft in addition to not having expected me to fight back. I’m not the same person as I was then… he made the mistake of assuming I was in addition to putting me in handcuffs. It took me a bit to get out of them and longer to come up with a plan… eventually, I had an opportunity. I broke his nose and locked him in the room he was keeping me in,” you explained and Lestrade would have laughed at your captor’s stupidity if you didn’t look so bad, wincing as you continued, “Which brings me to my favor. Will you collect him and deport him back to France? Sherlock and John don’t and can’t know about this, it’s too much of a risk… I can’t have either of them in jail for murder because they were trying to protect me or get revenge.”

Lestrade gave you a confused look, “You only want me to deport him? You could press some serious charges, (F/n). They would put him away for a very long time.”

“No, they wouldn’t. He’s a cop… doing that would just be a delay to him getting sent back- they would demand you send him to France to face the charges and, as always, he would use his friends and connections to get out of it. Filing a domestic violence complaint is enough to get his visa revoked and have him deported. That’s all I need.”

“What if he comes back?”

“That is someone else’s favor, Greg. You pick him up and get him out of England. I’ll handle the rest. Can I count on you?”

“Of course. Anything,” he nodded and you leaned forward to write down all the information he would need and fill out the proper form before softly requesting, “May I borrow your mobile?”

He was quick to nod, offering it to you. You gave it right back after shooting off a text, moving to stand as you said, “Thank you, Greg. Please call on me if there is any way I can return the favor.”

“Are you sure you shouldn’t see a doctor?” he asked, hastily standing, and you offered him a tight smile, “I’m fine, Lestrade. Believe me when I say I’ve had much worse… Now if you’ll excuse me I have somewhere to be.”

You turned and walked out the door before he could protest any further, leaving him to sort of gape before barking out a series of orders to his team- he wasn’t going to let you down.

You had always loved rain but as you stepped into the street now you loved it for an entirely different reason, beyond grateful that it gave you an excuse to pull your jacket’s shielding hood up to keep away not only the rain but the inquisitive stares as well. You ignored the soreness of your body as you swiftly strode to your next destination, avoiding the intimacy of a cab in favor of the anonymity of the rapidly emptying streets.

For once, you hoped that your brother was caught up enough in the case to miss the fact you hadn’t called the day before like you’d promised, things were bad enough without him worriedly nosing around to try and find you. A few tears slipped down your cheek as you tried to reassure yourself that everything was going to be ok. You could handle this. You’d always known this was a possibility and right now you could only be glad that neither Sherlock nor John had gotten dragged into it… and that somehow you’d managed to keep from having a panic attack.

Then again the day was far from over.

You slipped through the door to a small upscale piano bar, catching the eye of the bartender with a small wave to which he nodded and jerked his head toward one of the private rooms in back. He was an acquaintance from a while back and you had a standing agreement that when you sent people here in search of you he should show them to one of the back rooms without any questions- your artist friends were a secretive bunch and liked to play it mysterious.

Stepping through the door, you found Mycroft staring into a roaring fire with a glass of brandy in hand, “May I ask why you’ve called me to this place, (F/n)? Could we not have met at your friend’s café as we normally do?”

“Don’t play games, Mycroft. You know I’m supposed to be in France… there was a risk of being seen had we had gone to Annie’s,” you answered as you crossed the room.

You stretched your hands toward the fire for a moment as he hummed, “You did not answer my first question- why am I here?” 

He looked up at you for the first time as you shrugged off your coat and hung it near the fire to dry before turning to him, “I need a favor.”

His eyes widened ever so slightly as they took in your state, getting a glimpse at even more than Lestrade had now that your jacket was off, and didn’t bother with all the pointless questions, going straight to, “What do you need?”

You sank down in the armchair across from him, looking deeply into the flickering flames of the fire, “Keep him from returning to England. I know you can… I’ll do whatever you ask of me in return.”

Mycroft was quiet for a while before beginning, “You’re trying to protect your brother and mine. They have no idea you are here or what’s happened to you and if you had it your way they never would. You’ve been to see Lestrade and he’s agreed to do his part. I’m impressed that you’ve managed to keep a clear head through all this, though given what I know about you from our previous talks I can’t say I’m surprised. I will do as you ask… but not because I desire a favor in return. You are important to my brother and by extension me and you are one of the few in this world I find sufferable… it would be difficult to replace you should this escalate further.”

Blinking for a moment to try and process that, you nodded, “Thank you, Mycroft. I appreciate it more than you will ever know.”

The fire crackled for a while longer as the two of you enjoyed the silence and then you stood, beginning to struggle with your coat as you tried to avoid needlessly jostling your arms, both hosting nasty looking bruises from being twisted and wrenched around. Mycroft was swift to come to your aid, taking your jacket from you to offer you his own for a looser, less agitating fit, “Where do you plan on staying while you wait for your plan to play out?”

Your subsequent silence answered his question and he pulled his coat snuggly around you as he hummed, “You’ll stay with me. I have extra room and extensive security.”

Knowing from his tone that it was more of an order than an offer, you just nodded and let him lead you away as the shock, pain, and exhaustion finally settled in. You’d handled it… now to deal with the aftermath.


	61. Chapter 61

The inner workings of your mind woke you with frightening images, jolting you awake to a spell of shaking as your eyes desperately tried to adjust to the dark. It had been late afternoon when you’d pretty much collapsed on the large four-poster bed in the room Mycroft had deemed yours for the extent of your stay. He’d tried to get you to let someone look you over but you’d refused and asked to be alone so he’d left you with a first aid kit and some pajamas he’d had Anthea pick up since you’d lost your duffle. The only thing you’d felt like doing was sleeping so you’d just flung yourself as is on the bed and had been asleep at least long enough for the soft light of dusk to fall into the full darkness of night. You took a number of deep breaths as you tried to stabilize your brain’s grasp on reality and then carefully readjusted to go back to sleep.

One of the most frustrating things in life is being entirely exhausted- physically, mentally, or both as you were now- and finding that you aren’t able to sleep. Growling in frustration, you slowly shifted to your side with a little whimper- the first night after a beating was always the worst. With your ability to toss and turn as you normally would limited by the fact that it felt like you’d been steamrolled by a train, you couldn’t even attempt to get comfortable. Letting out a weighted sigh, you rolled to your stomach, forgetting that you very likely had a couple of fractured ribs, and let out a yelp as pain rippled up your chest. You hastily righted yourself and slipped out of bed, giving up on your quest for sleep – the room was too quiet, the bed too big, and you were too uneasy with being alone.

Aiming to solve at least one of those problems, you quietly padded down the hallways of Mycroft’s home in search of a nice looking armchair to sleep in and stumbled upon the man himself. You hesitated in the doorway to the big opulent office where Mycroft was sitting behind a large mahogany desk, looking deep in thought with his fingers laced beneath his chin and his eyes closed. Just watching for a moment as you tried to decide what to do, you wondered if he would know you were there and then if he would care if you were before deciding you were entirely too tired to care, creeping into the room to curl up in one of the two comfy looking chairs by the fire.

When Mycroft did eventually come out of his thoughts in the early morning, he was not surprised in the slightest to find you asleep in his office, in fact he’d assumed you’d end up there eventually. It hadn’t taken long from when you’d curled up for you to fall asleep, as you’d found the sound of the fire, the small space of the chair, and his silent presence comforting. He moved to sit across from you, debating if he should wake you to insist you at least let him clean the cuts on your face or not, but ultimately decided to let you sleep for a little while longer.

Mycroft didn’t believe in revenge- it was far too tied up in emotion and irrationality- but he did believe in punishment for wrongdoings and hurting you in the way that that man had was serious wrongdoing in his eyes. He’d never really had a friend before and he was very aware that it was not only a nuisance but a weakness to care but if he was going to have a friend to care about then he certainly wasn’t going to let anything happen to them. As such, he’d not only made the arrangement for your ex to be banned from England, as you’d asked, but had also made sure the man would face charges in France for kidnapping and assault without his usual loopholes.

Mycroft shifted in his chair, accidentally knocking over his umbrella that had been leaning against the arm, and the noise startled you awake, panic settling on your face for a moment before you remembered where you were. He offered you an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry, my dear, it was not my intent to wake you.”

You returned his smile weakly, “No need for apologies, Mycroft. Thank you for letting me intrude in your space for as long as I have.”

“It’s not an intrusion if I am not bothered by it. How are you feeling?” 

“Better now that I’ve slept,” you huffed, getting up, “but I should probably go clean up a bit.”

Mycroft escorted you back to your room since your knowledge of the house’s layout wasn’t sound, offering, “I am pleased to inform you that you no longer have to worry about that man. The detective inspector has done his part and I have done mine. He will be sent back to France tomorrow morning.”

You let out a soft relieved sigh, “I cannot thank you enough, Mycroft. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Reaching your room, you opened the door to find your duffle and satchel sitting on a chair and turned to give him a confused look, “How did you-“

“I figured you might want them,” he offered, giving a small smug shrug at your surprise. You quickly bounced up to press a kiss to his cheek, exclaiming “Thank you,” before practically skipping over to your bag.

He blinked, recovering from what had just happened as he was reminded of why you’d caught his attention in the first place- your unpredictability, and then cleared his throat, “I’m afraid I must go, there is some work I have to take care of, but I’ve left your phone on the nightstand. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if something comes up.”

You nodded, shuffling a little awkwardly as you realized you’d be alone in his house, “I won’t. Have a good day, Mycroft”

Once he was gone, you got to work, taking a long shower before beginning to tend to your injuries, and after a few hours, you were done. You sank down into the chair in your room, just slouching for a few minutes before pulling your satchel into your lap.

Reaching your hand in, you were quickly reminded of your predicament at the train station and pulled a face- you needed your sketchbook. Finding your laptop, you quickly hacked the GPS for John’s phone, mentally noting that you needed to help him come up with a better password… It was no wonder Sherlock got into his stuff all the time. His phone was across town and you checked your own phone, finding that he hadn’t contacted you yet to figure out why you hadn’t called which meant he was caught up in the case with Sherlock. You shot a text to Mycroft that you were going over to your flat to pick up a few things while the boys were out on the case and then pulled on your shoes and left the house.


	62. Chapter 62

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a rather violent and gore filled chapter. Please read at your own discretion

221 Baker Street.

You just looked up at it for moment contently, remembering when John had first brought you here. It had turned out to be better than you’d ever expected and though you often missed Paris, you wouldn’t give up London or your new life for anything in the world.

Quickly mounting the steps, you made your way inside a little cautiously before finding that both Mrs. Hudson and the boys were out- a fact that you were going to take advantage of by getting in and out as quickly as possible. You swung open the door to your flat, finding it unlocked, and made a mental note to scold Sherlock for breaking in later as you stepped in and shut it behind you with a sigh.

You were pulled from your thoughts when a voice made your blood run cold and your entire form freeze, “Welcome home, angel.”

It seemed like you were moving through molasses as you turned to find its source sitting on your couch, one of your old sketchbooks open on his lap, “How-what- w-what are you d-doing here, Nicolas?”

“Just reliving some fond memories,” he said nonchalantly, holding up the sketchbook that you now recognized as the main one from when you were with him, “You are very skilled at recording things- I’ll give you that.”

You couldn’t move, just staring at him as you tried to snap yourself out of it, and he got up to wrap an arm around your shoulders as he showed you the page he was on, “I like this one in particular… you even kept the police report and hospital discharge. So cute.”

Nicolas kissed your temple as you looked at it in silent horror, eyes scanning what you knew to be a record of how you’d learned to draw with your other hand. You hadn’t looked at this sketchbook since you’d finished it- afraid of the memories it might bring back- but kept it because you felt it was something you couldn’t afford to forget. He snapped it shut and tossed it across the room, “You were very rude before, angel… while I think this new spirit could be so delightfully fun, you left before we had a chance to talk. To have a little heart to heart… if you will.”

“H-How did you g-get here?” you breathed and the response was a hand forcefully colliding with your cheek as he snapped, “Did I say you could speak?”

You shook your head, tears rising up in your eyes, and he laughed before continuing, “Your little friends did their best but I’ve got a few friends of my own now… one in particular with a lot of power and you know what he tells me, angel?”

He gave you an expectant look and you quickly shook your head so he would continue, “He tells me you need to be punished for meddling in his business.”

There was a sharp crack as his hand connected with your face again and this time you moved to retaliate, having recovered from the initial shock, but stopped short at the sound of the front door opening. You could hear faint humming as Mrs. Hudson went to her apartment and opened your mouth to yell only to have him pin you to the wall, his hand over your mouth, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you… wouldn’t want her to come join the party, now would we?”

Your eyes widened and you shook your head vigorously as he sneered, “Then I suggest you keep quiet.”

Going over your options in your head as he removed the hand from your mouth to roughly caress from your cheek down to your breasts, you did the only thing you could think of and brought your knee up straight into his crotch. It didn’t have the intended effect, his grip on your wrist only tightened as he gave a pained snarl, “Try that again and I might decide it’s time for me to meet that brother of yours.”

Your heart stopped for a moment and he could see he’d hit a nerve, “Awww look at that. Maybe I should have led with what I’ll do to him should you pull another stunt like that… you ever wondered what his insides look like?”

That clinched it, you knew you should have kept a calm but that image in your head pushed you over the edge you’d been desperately avoiding, sending you into a full blown panic attack. Nicolas just laughed, “That’s more like it. Now let’s have a little talk about what a naughty little angel you’ve been… starting with you breaking my nose.”

His fist collided with your side and there was a sickening crunch as a least one of the ribs went from fractured to broken, causing you to double over in pain. He yanked you back up and you found that not only could you not breathe from panic but the few gasping breaths you did get out sent searing pain through your side, “Now about your little sociopath friend, seems the two of you have been getting cozy. You know how much I hate you giving attention to other men.”

You whimpered, waiting for the inevitable, but to your surprise, he pulled you across the flat and pushed you up against an open space of wall that was covered with drawings. He ripped one of Sherlock off the wall, looking at it with an expression of disgust, “So many drawings of him… You never drew me. Why is that?”

All you could do was blink at him through the tears as you desperately tried to calm yourself and he ripped the drawing in half before turning back to you, yanking your arm out of its socket as he traced a finger down your cheek with his other hand, “It’s not entirely your fault… I should have permanently marked you as mine. I just thought it would be such a shame to mar that beautiful skin of yours beyond those burns.”

Pausing his torment, he pulled out a knife, “It’s your fault I have to do this now… but I suppose it’s about time I signed my precious work of art, isn’t it?”

You pushed yourself as far against the wall as you could, shaking your head as your eyes locked on the knife, but there wasn’t any way for you to escape him. Tearing off the sleeve to your shirt, he gripped the upper part of your dislocated arm roughly as he sneered, “Remember what happens if you scream, angel,” and then dug the blade in your skin.


	63. Chapter 63

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a rather violent and gore filled chapter. Please read at your own discretion

A short while earlier back at the Yard, Lestrade had decided to pay your bastard ex a little visit. He was curious about the man that terrified a woman who so easily handled Sherlock, it seemed like a major contradiction in your character. He stepped up to the desk, “I’m here to see Nicolas Farole.”

The woman on the other side gave him a blank look, “I’m sorry detective inspector- he’s been released.”

Lestrade paled, “W-What? When? Why?” 

“Couple of hours ago… the paperwork-“ She stopped short looking at the stack of papers in her hands, “Well that’s strange. The paperwork is gone. I swear it was here.”

Lestrade didn’t seem to hear her, pulling out his phone and dialing you as he made his way back to his office. When you didn’t pick up the panic rose in his chest and as the elevator doors slid open, he snapped at Anderson, “I want a warrant out for the arrest of a Farole, Nicolas Farole, and a trace on (F/n) Watson’s phone. Now.”

Anderson scuttled off and Lestrade considered what to do when he got your voicemail again before remembering you’d used his phone to contact someone else when you’d come in. He found the text you’d sent and pressed call, pacing his office until a voice came through the other end, “Who is-“

“No time. You met with (F/n) Watson yesterday… Do you know where she is? Is she with you?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “She is staying with me, yes, but she’s gone to her flat to get some things.”

“Her ex escaped somehow… I don’t know how yet but you can be bloody sure I will find out. She’s not answering her phone.”

“Send a team and an ambulance to the flat immediately,” Mycroft commanded, hanging up before he got an answer to dial you and then, when you didn’t pick up, the eyes he’d put on you when you’d left his house. He heart sank to the pit of his chest when the man didn’t pick up either- his eyes always picked up… something was terribly wrong.

Statistics and numbers ran through his head as he calculated the likelihood of you being in trouble and then if Lestrade would get there soon enough in the time it took him to blink. Seeing no other options, he sent a text to Sherlock and hoped that by some stroke of luck he and John were on their way home.

Sherlock stalked down the street in a frustrated huff, they’d come to another wall in the case and John had insisted they go home because he needed to sleep. Needed sleep… sometimes he wondered if the man did these things to frustrate him on purpose. They were only a few blocks away from the flat when his phone went off and he absent-mindedly opened the text without looking at who it was from, “Go home now. (F/n) is in trouble. –MH”

He stopped dead in his tracks and John ran into him, letting out a string of curses before Sherlock demanded, “John. Did (F/n) call you like she said she would?”

John snapped his mouth shut and quickly pulled out his phone, “No. She hasn’t called me at all… Why, Sherlock? What’s happened?”

Sherlock took off at a run and all John could do was follow.

Droplets of blood stained the drawings on the wall behind you as Nicolas jarred your dislocated arm to get a better angle to slice the next line of the ‘N’ into your skin. By now you’d gone numb, there wasn’t much else you could do as your shortened breathing wasn’t going to allow you to scream in pain even if you wanted to and you were starting to feel light headed from both lack of air and loss of blood. He finished his craving his initials on your arm, branding you as his, and you nearly hurled at the sight of sliced flesh as blood gushed down your arm- when you got out of this you would need stitches and it would scar… if you got out of this.

He put the knife away so that he could press himself up against you, “There. Much better wouldn’t you say?”

You tried to nod as he roughly smashed his lips to yours, squeezing your side with one of his meaty hands until he heard another stomach-churning snap, and then pulled back to give you a satisfied smile, “Now let’s not overstay our welcome, shall we? Can’t have that brother of yours and his little friend coming home to ruin the party… or join it.”

Images of John and Sherlock covered in blood flooded your mind and the tears flowed freely as you shook your head and gasped, “No.”

Nicolas pried you away from the wall and escorted you to the door as if he was taking you on an evening stroll, casually draping your trench coat over your form to hide the blood before wrapping an arm around your shoulders, his hand falling over your wound. You could barely keep upright from the pain, in fact, if you weren’t such a veteran to it you probably would have passed out a long time ago… you honestly wished you had. His arm around you was supportive in the cruelest way, his hand squeezing at your injured arm through the stiff fabric of the jacket and causing another wave of pain that made your vision blur more than it already was.

There was no fighting it.

You’d lost.

Things were starting to get hazy but you still prayed to every god that you could think of that Mrs. Hudson would stay in her apartment and oblivious as he practically dragged you down the hall and to the front door. Once you were in the street, your brain had a spurt of the fighting spirit and you tried to come up with some way to use being in public to your advantage. That train of thought was cut short as you heard a familiar voice call your name and your heart stopped, a maniacal smile spreading across Nicolas’s face, “Well, well, looks like they’ll be joining us after all.”

He spun you to the exact sight you’d hoped you would never have to see- your brother and Sherlock skidding to a stop a few lengths away from you as the knife went to your neck. You could see John’s face fall into practiced concentration and Sherlock’s eyes scanning to deduce the situation in hopes of finding something he could use to his advantage as Nicolas called, “Back off. She’s coming with me.”

You wanted to scream when John took a step closer and you felt the arm holding the knife tense but Sherlock was quick to point out, “You’re bluffing. She means more to you alive.”

Both of them let out a sigh of relief as the knife came away from your throat and Nicolas shrugged, “True.”

In one swift movement, his grip on you changed so one arm was hugging you to his chest, putting pressure on your broken ribs, and the other pulled his police issue gun to point at John, “Now you on the other hand… I think you both would be better off dead.”

He kept his eyes on John and you watched your worst nightmares play out in front of you as he leaned to purr in your ear, “Wouldn’t you like that, angel? Watching your big brother die trying to protect you?”

You sobbed, shaking your head as you breathlessly choked out, “Johnny, just go. Please.”

The arm around your midsection squeezed sharply and you grimaced doubling over slightly before coughing up some blood as he growled, “What have I told you about speaking out of turn?”

The blood caused John’s doctor side to kick in and his eyes began to take everything in, assessing that you had broken ribs that were causing internal bleeding and, even though the coat concealed it, he could still tell that your arm was dislocated as well as bleeding profusely from the way it hung and the blood that was now covering your hand and dripping from your fingertips.

“I’m not going anywhere, (F/n),” he stated firmly and Nicolas sneered, “Wrong answer.”

Just as he cocked the gun, you acted on instinct and threw your head back into his face and your good arm into his gut, causing him to drop the gun but of course still somehow keep his hold on you.

“You bitch,” he screeched, throwing you into the wall of the building so hard you bounced off it, immediately losing consciousness as the back of your head came in contact with the brick. Sherlock took the opportunity to clobber Nicolas in the face when he went to try and wail on your unconscious form, grabbing him when he stumbled back to throw him into the nearby alleyway with a scarily dark look on his face as John went to you.

He rushed to stabilize you, to stop the bleeding, trying to stay calm and calculated as he would with anyone else in this situation even though every fiber of his being told him it wasn’t just anyone else, it was you, and he should panic. Neither of them had been so glad to hear the wail of a siren nearing Baker St. and could only pray that they weren’t too late.


	64. Chapter 64

John snoozed lightly in a chair by your hospital bed, his head balanced in his hand as he rested his elbow on the wooden arm. His blonde hair was disheveled, a considerable amount of stubble covered his chin, and his eyes were rimmed with dark circles from lack of sleep. In the past three days, he’d refused to leave your side. The only reason he wasn’t still in the blood covered clothes from before was Lestrade, who had brought him something clean to put on when he’d come to wrap up his report.

The room was filled with an assortment of things from all the people who’d been in. Molly had brought you a lipstick and John some strong coffee. Mrs. Hudson came with a tin of biscuits she’d made herself. Harry couldn’t come but sent her best and not only a large bouquet of flowers but some new colored pencils for when you woke. Lestrade hadn’t brought anything but sat with you for a long while and promised he’d figure out what had happened. Mycroft had sent flowers and visited in the dead of the night, standing at the room’s window to look out pensively. He felt guilty. He shouldn’t have let you go to your flat. The mystery of how your ex had gotten out in the first place was just as important to him as it was to Lestrade. On top of that was the fact that he’d found the eyes that he’d put on you dead. It was troubling. Aside from them, there was a long string of people John sort of recognized- including both Annie, who left in tears, and Gabriel.

The only person who hadn’t come was Sherlock.

John didn’t know whether to be angry, relieved, or sad but decided, in the end, to give him the benefit of the doubt since he’d very nearly killed Nicolas and certainly wouldn’t ever walk again. Sherlock, for all intents and purposes, acted as though nothing had happened. He solved the case without John and then started a new experiment, holing himself up in the flat as he diligently worked on it. Internally, he was reeling, he was terrified, miserable, guilty, and worried all at the same time- It was overwhelming for him.

It was his brain that was keeping him away from you, telling him that he’d gone too far in his experiment with feelings and that it had made him weak. If he was alone, he was safe and, to some extent, if he was alone, you were safe. You made him lose focus. You gave criminals something to use against him. You distracted him. He listened to his brain as he’d done his entire life, letting it take him through the motions of his everyday life, but somewhere else inside him was a new voice.

He’d never heard it before and he wondered if it had existed all along, just lying dormant in him, or if it had recently developed when you entered his life. The voice that he’d since identified as his heart yelled at him to go to you, to never leave your side again, to kiss every bruise on your skin. It told him it wasn’t a weakness because caring for you brought out his strength, his humanity, and staying away to protect himself and you only placed more hurt on you both.

This was the argument going on inside him as he measured out some chemical in a vial and it slipped, shattering on the table below. He just stared at it for a moment. He’d never broken a vial in his life. Not once. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before trying to come to a compromise between the two voices- he’d go visit Molly and work from there… closer to you but still away.

As if he had a big brother sixth sense, John woke up a few minutes before you stirred and grumbled something about hating hospitals. He was stunned for a moment, as if he couldn’t believe that you were actually awake, but came out of it quickly when your eyes flickered open and you softly called, “Johnny?”

He was out of the chair and by your side in an instant, taking your hand up in his, “I’m here, Squeak. I’m right here. How are you feeling?”

You gave him a weak smile, your eyes sliding closed again as you took a slow breath and shifted slightly to take an assessment, “I’ve felt better. Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken besides the ribs. That’s good.”

“You scared me half to death. I thought I was going to lose you… or that you’d never wake up.”

“I’m so sorry, Johnny. Things got out of hand.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. I’m just glad you’re ok,” he nodded, you’d been unbelievably lucky and everything except the head injury had been extremely treatable and would heal with few to no complications aside from the scaring on your arm. Now fully awake, you opened your eyes again to look for him, and frowned confusedly, “John?”

“What is it, Squeak?”

“Why can’t I see you? Or anything?” you whispered, panic rising in your voice.

He visibly startled, “You can’t see me? Can you see anything? Blurs?”

Tears came to your eyes and John’s heart broke as you panicked, “Just blacks and greys… John, what happened? What did he do to me?”

Trying to calm you, he leaned and pressed a kiss to your forehead, mumbling into it, “Hush, love, hush. I’m sure it’ll be all right… I’m going to go get your doctor okay?”

You nodded, trying to ignore that fact that he’d just called you love, something he only ever did when he was beyond worried, and felt him leave. He came back only a few minutes later with the doctor, adjusting your bed so you could sit up when you asked before a serious sounding man started going over test results.

You could only sort of comprehend what he and John were discussing. Something about the impact of the wall causing your brain to bounce, effectively bruising the occipital lobe, the lobe that controlled vision, to cause temporary blindness. Even hearing him say it was temporary didn’t make you feel any better, especially when he went on to say that it should clear up in a few weeks but could take months, and you felt even worse when he said there was a small chance it could be permanent.

Your entire life revolved around your ability to see. How would you draw? Or paint? You felt tears start running down your face as you thought of all the things you would miss- the colors, John’s wide grin, the intensity of Sherlock’s eyes, the sky after it rained… everything.

The doctor excused himself and John moved to sit on the bed next to you, brushing the hair from your face before wiping some of your tears as you blinked blankly, “It’ll come back, Squeak. That you can see something other than black is a good sign. Give it time.”

You knew your brother was worried but relieved from the tone of his voice but he sounded so tired. You reached in the direction of his face and he caught your hand, bringing it to his cheek as he rubbed his thumb along the back of it. You fingers gently felt the stubble and the bags under his eyes with a frown. He’d been up far too long, “Go home, John.”

You felt his head shake, “I’m not leaving you alone, (F/n).”

Closing your eyes, you huffed frustratedly, “Where’s Sherlock?”

The silence answered your question and you sighed, you were a bit disappointed but other than that you didn’t blame him- hospitals were the worst and you probably looked dreadful. You wondered if he was mad at you for going to Mycroft or for not being more observant or more careful or for getting him caught up in this whole thing. You opened your eyes again with the intent to look around and found only black, reminding you of what you’d just been told.

John could see from your face that you were struggling but had no idea how to help, wanting to hold you close but knowing that he couldn’t because it would only put you in more pain… he couldn’t even give you your sketchbook to draw. You turned your head away from him as tears started to roll down your face again, “Go away, John. I want to be alone.”

“But-“

“Just go!” you snapped, feeling a little guilty for pushing your brother away but too upset to do anything else. He sighed, assuring himself that you were just trying to process everything, and then kissed your temple and left you alone with your thoughts.


	65. Chapter 65

You sniffled quietly and buried your face in your hands to weep, not caring in the slightest that it hurt to do so. You were so unbelievably conflicted. You didn’t want to be alone, it terrified you at the moment, but at the same time you didn’t want anyone around- you were so upset that you just wanted to scream at the universe. No one needed to be around that… especially since you couldn’t read their faces.

There was a light rhythmic knock on the door, startling you, and a male voice with a light Irish accent cheerfully called, “Hello, darling. I just need to check your charts… are you alright?”

“I’m blind. Does that seem alright to you?” you snapped and then quickly followed up in an apologetic tone, “Sorry… that was rude. Can you- could you just come back later? I really just need to be alone for a bit.”

The voice hummed, “I understand, love,” and then turned a little dark and slightly emphatic, “I won’t bother you again for a while. Rest up.”

You tilted your head a little confusedly, your hearing was good and you had good tonal memory but you just couldn’t grasp people’s feelings or intentions from their voice like you could when you looked at them. You heard him shuffle away and mumbled, “thank you,” before pulling your legs up to your chest. It was a painful move and had any of your health care team or John seen you they would have protested and scolded but you were beyond thinking about that, weakly wrapping your arms around your knees to cry into them.

After you kicked him out, John didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to leave the hospital but he obviously couldn’t go back in with you until you had some time to think. He just wandered aimlessly for a bit and then let out a frustrated growl and headed to the morgue. Molly was surprised to see him, getting a hopeful look in her eyes, “She’s awake?”

“Yeah,” John nodded, sinking down in her rotating desk chair with a heavily weighted sigh as Molly excitedly exclaimed, “You hear that, Sherlock? She’s awake.”

“Of course I heard, Molly. I’m not deaf,” Sherlock stated flatly from the microscope and John furrowed his brows as he noticed the man’s presence, “How long have you been here? You could have visited.”

He gave no answer and Molly offered, “He’s been in since yesterday afternoon,” before giving John a small frown, “If she’s awake… why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with her?”

John got up to pace, dragging his hands through his hair frustratedly, “She kicked me out… said she needed to be alone.”

“Why?” Molly wondered and John stopped, standing quietly for a moment as he wondered how to explain before simply stating, “She can‘t see.”

That caught Sherlock’s attention and his head snapped up, “What?”

John sank down in the chair again as both Molly and Sherlock looked at him expectantly, “The blow to her head bruised her occipital lobe rendering her temporarily blind…. She’s not taking it well. She practically screeched that I leave as she cried.”

He slumped over to hold his head in his hands, “What am I supposed to do? Everything I would normally do to cheer her up involves seeing and she’s too beat up for me to even hug her. I just feel so- so…” he paused and then sighed, “helpless.”

Molly came to rub John’s back, “I’m sure you’ll think of something, John. She just needs time.”

Sherlock abruptly got up and strode out, leaving John and Molly to look after him in confusion. He simply couldn’t bear it anymore, his heart voice had won the argument now that he was thinking about how completely devastated you must be over the loss of your vision. He knew it must be bad if you’d pushed away John, you’d never push away John for any other reason. You needed him and he was going to go to you but only after he made one stop. There were a few things he needed first.

Over the sound of your crying, you heard some faint footsteps entering the door to your room and you quickly snapped, “Bloody hell! Can’t you people just leave me alone.”

The footsteps stopped as Sherlock took in your battered form, he hadn’t actually seen you since that day in front of the flat and his heart ached in a terrible fashion when he saw just how bad it really was. There wasn’t an inch of your skin left unharmed and your arm was heavily bandaged. He wished he’d killed that man. He would have had Lestrade not pulled him off.

He watched you tilt your head, listening to see if whoever it was had left, and then growl, “I can hear you breathing you know.”

He stepped over to you, setting the things in his hands down on the chair John had been in, “I’m positive you shouldn’t be sitting like that, love.”

Your head snapped up in the direction of his voice and his heart twisted painfully in his chest as you blinked at him absently, “Sherlock?”

The tears sprang back to your eyes with renewed fervor, as you tumbled, “Please don’t be cross with me I’m sorry I went to Mycroft over you, I didn’t want anything to happen to you or John. I wasn’t observant enough and I dragged you both into this whole mess. I shouldn’t have let my fear get-”

“Shut up,” he snapped, “Can’t you see I’m not cross in the slightest. Stop apologizing.”

“I can’t see anything,” you sobbed into your knees as he realized his mistake and sank down the bed next to you, unsure of what to do since he couldn’t exactly hold you, “I didn’t mean… (F/n). Don’t cry. I just- stop that. I’m not mad, just- just- stop crying.”

To his surprise you gave a soft laugh through the tears, “You’re fretting. It’s cute.”

Must be the meds, he thought as he smiled softly, reaching to cup your face, “I am not and it is not.”

You leaned into his touch, bringing your hand up to place over his, before he pulled away to help you stretch out your legs again, “Don’t sit like that until your ribs have healed.”

You nodded and leaned your head back into the pillow, wiping your nose with the back of your hand as you whispered, “I feel so empty.”

“Statistically, your vision should return fairly quickly. I know it must be difficult but try to keep that in mind,” he stated, bending to pick up one of the things he’d brought.

“What if it doesn’t?” you whispered and he simply hummed, “It will.”

You could feel him shifting, hesitating, and reached out to find him, glad when your fingers hit shirtsleeve instead of air, “What’s wrong? I can feel you fidgeting you know.”

“Would you be willing to help me test a theory?” he murmured as you fingered his sleeve and you nodded, “You know I almost always am. Do I get to know the theory we’re testing this time?”

“No. Now close your eyes and just listen.”

You did as he asked, settling back into your pillow, but kept your fingers on his sleeve as he cracked open the book and his voice filled the room with the first lines of La Belle et la Bête, the French dripping off his tongue. You smiled a genuine smile, something he was very glad to see, and drifted off to sleep listening to the deep melodious sound of his voice reading the classic tale.


	66. Chapter 66

Sherlock fell quiet once you were asleep, just looking over you for a moment before reaching to erase the tear tracks from your cheeks with the pad of his thumb. He should have insisted that you stay, it wouldn’t have been the first time he threw a fit to get what he wanted, or at least made you take John with you. At this moment, if he had it to do all over again, he even would have abandoned the case and gone with you himself if it saved you from this. He considered that for a moment- nothing had ever taken precedence over his cases before. It felt odd yet at the same time kind of right. Taking note of this new development, he carefully removed your fingers from his sleeve so he could get up and look around.

When his eyes fell on the little mountain of cards on your bedside table, he cocked a brow- he would never understand people’s need to give scraps of papers with cheesy sentiments printed on them when people were ill or injured. It certainly didn’t help with the healing process in any way, if anything it reminded one of the long road to recovery. Still, he was curious to see who had paid you a visit aside from those that were already obvious from other items around the room so he sat down in the chair and pulled the stack into his lap.

A few minutes later, John poked his head through the door just in time to see Sherlock nearly destroy what Gabriel had left you. It was a black and white photo of you sitting in a Parisian café with your sketchbook in your lap, obviously unaware he was taking it, and the print looked to be developed and exposed by hand. You would expect no less of a traditional film photographer like Gabe. Sherlock actually rather liked the photo, it captured you well, it was the message on the back that upset him, “Mi Querida, (F/n), I wish everyone could see you as I do- intelligent, beautiful, and terribly fuerte. Get well soon for more nights of salsa and fun. Besos, Gabe.”

John was quick to pull it from his hands, “That’s enough of that. You can’t ruin her things just because you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous… I just dislike him. He punched me,” Sherlock huffed and John raised an eyebrow, “He punched you because you interrupted his date- I’m almost certain you deserved it- and you dislike him because you’re jealous. Honestly, Sherlock… It wouldn’t kill you to admit it.”

They began arguing until Sherlock paused when he heard you give a soft whimper, causing them both to look in your direction to find your face scrunched up and your hands fisted into the sheets. You shot up with a little gasp and were met with only black when your eyes opened, not exactly the best thing to wake up to after a nightmare. Your breathing was quick to shorten and become increasingly labored, something Sherlock had seen from you once before, and he calmly moved to sit on the bed, “You’re safe, (F/n). I need you to breathe.”

“John,” You hiccupped, trying to take in a deeper breath of air as you reached your hands out to find Sherlock’s arm. He took one of your hands and securely sandwiched it between his as he assured, “John’s here, too. Nothing’s happened to him. Breathe.”

Pushing the surprise and slight suspicion over how well Sherlock was handling this from his mind, John moved to sit on the other side of the bed, “I’m here, Squeak. Everyone is safe.”

Your fingers latched tightly to his jumper as your breathing started to calm slightly, “Nicolas-“

Sherlock’s grip on your hand tightened considerably as he firmly growled, “You don’t have to worry about him anymore, (F/n). He’s gone.”

You just nodded and clung to them both until your heart rate and breathing went back to even and your brother leaned forward to kiss your temple, “I’m going to go get you some water, okay?”

He moved to leave and your grip on him tightened for a moment before you hesitantly removed your fingers from his jumper and gave another small nod, letting him slip out of the room. When he came back a few minutes later, he found you sitting cross-legged next to Sherlock with your head on his shoulder and your fingers fiddling with his sleeve. He marveled at the two of you again for a moment and then noticed that your human pillow seemed a little absent and that he had pulled the stack of cards into his lap again.

Sherlock was intently staring down at a white card with a stiff red envelope that John didn’t recognize and, seeing that his friend was already in deep calculating thought, he pulled it from his hands. The swirly print read, “I’ve decided you’re interesting. Get well soon.- M”

He paled and brought Sherlock back to reality when he rushed, “This wasn’t here when I left.”

You furrowed your brow in confusion but before you could ask what he meant, Sherlock demanded, “Was there anyone in to see you between when John left and I arrived?”

You sat up when John placed the cup of water in your hands and offered, “Someone came in to check my chart. A guy with a bit of an accent… Irish, I think. I snapped at him and he said he’d leave me alone for a bit. It sounded like he might have been alluding to something but I’m not really sure. Why?”

Sherlock and John exchanged a glace before John started, “It’s noth-“

“John Hamish Watson- Don’t you dare lie to me,” you growled, sensing the tension in the room, and Sherlock cut in, “You’ve received a note and a visit from Moriarty.”

“Moriarty…” you repeated slowly, they’d never actually explained about him, “Read it to me.”

Sherlock did as you asked and it was your turn to pale, “Was it in a red envelope? Like a strong crimson?”

John frowned at you, “How did you know that, (F/n)?”

“Is my sketchbook here?”

John quickly switched the water for your sketchbook and you ran your fingers over it for a moment before flipping open the cover and counting the page corners as you mumbled what drawings were on each page as if you could see them. When you reached the set of drawings you wanted, you pulled the book fully open to reveal an identical crimson envelope tucked in the crease, groping for it to hold it out in Sherlock’s direction, “When I went back to work after they found Timmy’s body, I found this in my storage space. I assumed it was from Mycroft…”

Sherlock opened the envelope to look it over as you shut your sketchbook and then searched for a place to put it that wasn’t the bed, John quickly taking it from you, “I’ve got it, Squeak.”

Sherlock fingered the note and then stated, “He believes you’ve crossed him in some way, likely by solving your friend’s riddles to find the sketchbook that implicated him and then identifying the body when he took pains to delay its discovery so it would remain unidentified. He is responsible for that man being set free in retaliation and was probably the one that informed him that you were in London in the first place… but it seems you’ve piqued his interest in some way and he will hold off on getting even until you cease to be interesting.”

“Oh… That’s good I guess,” you murmured, rubbing at one of your eyes.

John was almost glad you couldn’t see them, as he knew his own face was filled with fear and Sherlock had gone even paler than normal, if that was possible. You had no way of knowing or understanding the gravity of the situation and the meds were making you tired and a little needy, so the extended silence put you a bit on edge. You fidgeted while they both lost themselves in their minds, pulling them back to reality when you decided you couldn’t stand it anymore and slumped to rest your cheek on Sherlock’s arm, “When can I go home?”

“Not until tomorrow,” John sighed, having anticipated your desire to get away from this place and back to the comforting familiarity of Baker St. and your face fell into a dejected pout.

“As a doctor, you could sign her out now,” Sherlock suggested and John shot him a glare, “No, Sherlock. She needs to be under observation for at least twenty-four hours for the head injury… Not to mention it’s a good idea to keep her on the pain medication for a while longer.”

“She is more than capable of handling the pain and you could observe her from home.”

They quickly began bickering, completely losing track of the original point as things started to get ridiculous and they ended up making jabs at each other over how each drank their tea. All you could do was stifle a giggle every now and then as you waited for it to be over… or that’s what you would have done had you not been connected to an IV of pain meds. They made your mood dip up and down and halfway through the argument you began to feel something between frustrated and insecure with a bit of exhaustion in the mix.

You reached towards John’s voice, feeling a slight sense of relief when your hand found his jumper, and tugged him to you. The action took him by surprise and he stumbled slightly but it effectively shut both of them up as you wound your arms around John in a hug, ignoring the throbbing pain that doing so caused. He hesitantly returned it, trying not to hurt you but not reject you either, as you huffed, “If you say I need to stay, Johnny, then I’ll stay… but only if you go home.”

You felt him tense under your hands as he firmly insisted, “I’m not leaving you, Squeak.”

“Yes, you are.” You ordered in an equally firm tone, “Go home. Get some sleep, eat something, and take a shower… I love you, John, but you stink.”

He chuckled and you nuzzled your nose into his shoulder as you added, “Please?”

“Alright,” he agreed, pulling away from you to gently cup your cheek, “I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Sherlock can stay with you until then. Right, Sherlock?”

You didn’t have to see it to know your brother was shooting the man next to you a demanding glare but it was unwarranted as Sherlock quickly responded, “Of course. Really, John… I thought we had gotten past you pointing out the obvious.”

John opened his mouth to retaliate but you gave his sleeve a sharp tug, “There will be time for that later. Go.”

Pulling a face, he pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, “Get some rest, Squeak,” and you hummed, “I will if you will,” as he turned to Sherlock, “You call me right away if something happens, Understood?”

He nodded and your brother gave one last glance at you before pacing out the door, leaving you alone with Sherlock as he hoped to God nothing else would happen while he was gone.


	67. Chapter 67

You felt Sherlock’s hand on your hip and reached out to find him again, quickly finding your hand in his as he caught it and then brought it to his lips to kiss your knuckles. You could feel his lips turn up in a smirk when you giggled and then he wove his fingers between yours as you groaned, “How much longer until tomorrow?”

“A while,” he hummed and you sighed, “I’m sorry you have to stay… I know it must be terribly boring for you.”

“I want to stay, (F/n).”

“That’s sweet, Sherly, but it doesn’t make it any less boring.”

“True. Play a game with me?”

You blinked at the ceiling a couple of times and then gave a one-shouldered shrug, “Sure. What did you have in mind?”

You felt him shift to sit cross-legged on the bed, his knees facing you and your hand in his lap, and he pressed your fingers flat as he hummed, “Tell me what you feel.”

Before you could ask what he meant, his fingertips started tracing something across your palm and you shivered slightly at how gentle his touch was. It took you a moment but you realized what he was getting at and let out a soft chuckle, “It’s a cat.”

“Correct,” he chuckled and then, to his surprise, you pulled one of his hands over to you with a grin, “My turn.”

He could see now why you’d shivered as your soft fingertips traced across the plane of his palm and he had to stop himself from giving a soft moan. He closed his eyes to focus on the lines you were drawing and after a moment quirked an eyebrow as he muttered, “A rose.”

“Yup,” you nodded and he pulled your hand back to him to continue the game. This went on for longer than Sherlock had originally intended, escalating in complexity as you went along, and he wondered how you always found a way to keep his interest even with the most mundane things.

You’d just nearly stumped him by drawing a plate of spaghetti when you let out a soft yawn and he snuck a glance at the clock- it was nearly three in the afternoon and you’d been at it for almost two hours. Deciding that it was best if you got some rest, he wound his fingers around yours and pulled you to sitting to help you get situated correctly on the bed as he thrummed, “We should take a break so you can sleep.”

Your fingers tightened around his hand when he moved off the bed and he sank back down as he stated with a hint of annoyance, “I’m obviously not going anywhere, (F/n). Relax”

“Promise?” you whispered and you suddenly felt him lean over you, his lips carefully meeting yours in a chaste kiss before he lowly rumbled, “I promise.”

Content with his answer, you nodded sleepily and gave another yawn before slipping off to sleep. Sherlock moved to the chair, crossing his ankle over his knee as he steepled his hands beneath his chin, and lost himself in his thoughts while you slept. Being patient and understanding was exhausting not to mention difficult, he briefly wondered how John did it all the time before reminding himself that he was doing it for you. You had enough going on in your mind right now without his usual attitude and he had to try to keep himself from accidentally making it worse, which meant watching his every word. He pulled up his folder dedicated you in his mind and took it with him into his mind palace, sitting down in one of the rooms and spreading its contents out around him. He had enough information to get you through this, he just needed to sort through and find the things of relevance.

This was the scene Mycroft arrived to a couple of hours later, having been informed you were awake and made his way over as soon as he was free. When he stepped in the room, Sherlock tensed, “She’s sleeping.”

“I can see that. I’m glad to see you finally decided to visit… and that John was coaxed to leave.”

“She insisted. I don’t understand why we can’t just take her home.”

Mycroft stepped over to his usual place at the window, “John may be a doctor but he does not have the resources of a hospital, Sherlock. You know that.”

A quiet settled over the room for a few minutes until you shifted and, before Sherlock could stop you, rolled onto your injured side, squishing your bandaged arm beneath you. You shot up so fast you nearly fell out of the bed, which in turn caused some additional pain in your ribs as you tumbled a colorful string of profanities in both French and English.

“Should I call a nurse?” Sherlock asked, a definite hint of worry in his voice, and you shook your head, keeping your face in your hands, “Only if it’s bleeding.”

You felt his hands on your arm as he checked and then hummed, “It’s not.”

Mycroft watched the little interaction with curiosity as you began to fidget and Sherlock eyed your hands, knowing you were itching to draw. You raised your head in Mycroft’s direction and he expected you to greet him but you just growled, “I hate this. What am I supposed to do? It hasn’t even been a day and I’m going insane…”

“Welcome to my world,” Sherlock chuckled and you groaned but a small smile played at your lips, “Does this mean I get to shoot the wall?”

“No,” he answered sternly with a hint of laughter in his voice and you gave a mock pout, “Aww come on. All you have to do is wait till John goes out and then point me towards it.”

“I don’t think Mrs. Hudson would appreciate that,” Mycroft offered and you jumped before hissing, “Sherlock, why didn’t you tell me Mycroft was here?”

“It wasn’t relevant.”

You sighed, not bothering to argue with him, “I’m sorry, Mycroft. It was not my intention to be rude though I cannot speak for your brother.”

“It’s alright, my dear,” Mycroft practically cooed as he came to sit on the edge of your bed, earning a hash glare from Sherlock, and you reached out to find his sleeve. You felt him tuck a strand of hair behind your ear before his fingers went to your chin, tilting your face up towards him, “Is it permanent?”

Sherlock ground his teeth as he watched his brother take up your hand in his and you shake your head, “They said weeks, maybe months.”

“I hope my little brother has been behaving himself and taking good care of you,” Mycroft frowned, giving your hand a little squeeze.

You grinned widely, turning in the direction you knew Sherlock was, “He’s been surprisingly fantastic.”

Mycroft chuckled as Sherlock managed a look between a pout and a smug smirk and you giggled, “He’s pouting now isn’t he?”

Sherlock shot Mycroft a glare in hopes that he wouldn’t answer but his older brother offered a, “That he is,” before standing and stating, “I’m afraid I have to get back to work but it is good to see you awake.”

“Bye, Mycroft. Be well.”

“And you, (F/n). Goodbye.” Mycroft hummed in response, giving Sherlock’s shoulder a squeeze as he walked out.

When his footsteps faded, you softly demanded, “Come here,” and reached out towards Sherlock, who didn’t move until you started waving your hand, reluctantly sitting on the edge of your bed. You found his arm and followed it up to weave your fingers into his hair as you murmured, “Mycroft isn’t going to steal me away from you, Sherly.”

“I didn’t-“

“I’m blind, not stupid, Sherlock, besides I could hear you grinding your teeth.”

He was quiet, contemplating how even without your sight you could still read him, and when you moved your fingers to his cheekbone you could feel him lean into your touch ever so slightly. He turned to look at you finally, your fingers still tracing over his skin, and a frown settled on his face. Your eyes seemed so empty- it hurt his heart to see their usual spark missing from them.

His breath hitched beneath your fingertips as they traced over his lips, causing them to part slightly before you cupped his cheek and pulled him down towards you. You leaned up to press your lips to his and found that after a moment he eagerly responded, his tongue already seeking entrance to your mouth. There was a short battle between your tongues when you allowed him entrance and this time you won, wondering for a second if he had let you as you felt out your new space. He broke the kiss just as your lungs began to scream for air, both of you panting softly as he rested his forehead on yours, and then you tilted up to press a succession of kisses to his lips, mumbling in between, “Do you- think- you- could find me- some- loose paper?”

You could practically feel him trying to deduce what you wanted it for and then felt him nod, “Of course.”

He stood when you pulled away and reluctantly left the room to fulfill your request as you leaned back into the bed with a content sigh- this could work. For a while, you’d wondered… patience from you could only go so far, but now it seemed Sherlock was making his own effort to meet you the rest of the way. It made your heart happy.


	68. Chapter 68

Faint violin music resounded from the closed door to your room when John returned the next morning and he cocked his head to the side in thought before swinging it open. The room was covered in a plethora of paper animals, a good number of them cranes, and a symphony John recognized filled the air. You were sitting cross-legged in the middle of the hospital bed, your fingers busy folding yet another animal, and Sherlock was in the chair next to you with his feet kicked up on your bed and his eyes closed, violin and bow in hand.

You finished what you were working on, which turned out to be a paper balloon, filled it with air, and then threw it in Sherlock’s direction, hitting him square in the face. He stopped playing and you giggled triumphantly, “Direct hit?”

“You got lucky,” he said pursing his lips and you pouted, “Even if I did- It still hit you. Now pick a new spot… further away this time.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered open as a small smile made its way to his face and then he spotted John in the doorway, holding up a hand for him to stay where he was, “John is back. If you can hit him then I will admit it’s more than luck.”

He placed your balloon back in your hands as you greeted your brother, “Morning, Johnny. Did you sleep well?”

“I did, Squeak. How was your night? Sherlock didn’t give you any trouble did he?”

Your head swiveled to where he was and you chewed at your lip in concentration as you responded, “They gave me more pain meds for a while after I rolled on my arm and split the stitches but other than that it was good and Sherlock gave me just enough trouble to keep me happy.”

John was about to respond when he was hit in the face with your paper balloon and you demanded, “Did it hit him? It hit something.”

Sherlock actually looked proud as he flatly stated, “It wasn’t luck,” and you squealed happily, making John smile. He came and kissed your cheek, “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. You ready to go home?”

“You have no idea, Johnny,” you sighed, rubbing at your face and he ran his fingers through your hair before placing a kiss on top of your head, “I’ll go get the doctor. Sherlock, would you gather her things?”

The next couple of hours had the doctor giving you a final once over, writing you a prescription for pain meds, and going over proper care for your injuries with John, while Sherlock gathered all your paper animals and things. Knowing John needed to feel helpful, Sherlock let him be the one to usher you out to the cab, one of his arms around your waist as you wound the arm not in a sling around his shoulders. You chatted happily despite the hint of fear in your face and the tremors in your hands and John felt a strong sense of relief- this was the sister he remembered. You were beat to all hell and temporarily blind but still joking and laughing, none of that numbly staring off into space stuff from when you’d first come to London.

You all piled into the cab and you looked out the window out of habit as you huffed, “Would you give me a hand sending in some of my work, Johnny? And groceries? I’m pretty sure my fridge is em-“

“Don’t be an idiot, (F/n). You’re staying upstairs,” Sherlock hummed impatiently, silently panicking at the thought of you being alone and unable to protect yourself, and John nodded, “He’s right, (F/n). Until you’re better you’re staying with us.”

You opened your mouth to argue and then thought better of it, you didn’t really want to be alone and they wanted to make sure you were safe. There was really nothing to argue about. You sighed, “Fine. I still need to send in my work.”

“I’ll help you, Squeak, but let’s wait until tomorrow. Give you some time to adjust to being home again.” 

The cab ride was quiet after that, save your fingers drumming on the door, and you arrived home to Mrs. Hudson fretting. She stopped the three of you in the hallway insisting that you have tea and biscuits and that you stay with her so you didn’t have to climb the stairs, which quickly caused bickering between the three.

Taking their distraction and turning it into an opportunity, you slipped away, using your superb memory to find the stairs and silently climb them so you could slip into their flat. You took a deep breath, reassuring yourself that just because you couldn’t see didn’t mean you were helpless, and felt your way rather successfully to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Confident that they would notice your absence before it whistled and you actually had to finish the tea, you managed to find John’s chair and sank down in it with your legs thrown over one of the arms as you pressed at your shoulder, the pain meds were wearing off quickly.

Downstairs the trio had gotten horrifically off topic, something not very unusual for the inhabitants of 221 Baker St, and while John was talking with Mrs. Hudson about her hip pain, Sherlock finally noticed you weren’t there. His heart rate picked up as he sharply snapped, “John,” and the stalked off towards the stairs, climbing them two at a time.

He burst through the door almost frantically just as the kettle whistled to find you humming contently with the small British flag pillow from John’s chair hugged loosely to your chest, “You really do have the gift of good timing, Sherly. Would you please finish making tea?”

Letting out a nearly silent huff of relief, he stepped over to press an upside-down kiss to your forehead as he murmured, “Of course but you owe me.”

John walked through the door just as you chuckled and Sherlock moved to silence the kettle, once again missing his affection towards you, and sternly scolded, “Not only did you climb the stairs but you put the kettle on? What if you had turned on the wrong burner or set your hand on the stove? Or tripped and fell? You’re already hurt, (F/n). The last thing we need is you in the hospital again.”

You let out a tired sigh, feeling the effects of the nights interrupted sleep, the pain meds wearing off, and the sudden emotional toil, and shifted in the chair uncomfortably as John continued his rant. He stopped when Sherlock came back in with tea and leveled him with an unamused look, “Shut up, John. She’s obviously in pain. Stop being an idiot and go pick up her prescriptions.”

You heard your brother pause in his pacing, likely to look you over, and then let out a growl and leave with a wall-shaking door slam before Sherlock pressed the cup of tea into your hands, “Here. Try not to spill.”

You nodded and listened to his footsteps move about the flat as you sipped at it, despite everything it felt good to be home and the familiarity was certainly comforting. You shifted again and this time managed to find a comfortable spot, leaning back to lightly doze in an attempt to make up for missed sleep.


	69. Chapter 69

Things finally started to sink in for the three of you now that you were home. It had been easy to push away the reality of the situation and the emotions other than worry when you were unconscious in a hospital bed but everything had to be dealt with eventually.

Down the road, John gathered the little bag that held your prescriptions as he thought over what had happened. He’d almost lost you… again. The thought of what would have happened had he and Sherlock not been on their way home at that exact moment sent a shot of dread through his veins. You were his support system, his lifeline, the one person in the world he could trust with anything and everything- his best friend. At the same time, you were his baby sister and it was his job to protect you and somehow he’d failed.

There was no way he could erase the guilt- if he had gone with you, if you had felt like you could come to him, if he’d noticed you hadn’t called, if, if, if… The list went on and on. He swore to himself that he wasn’t going to let anything like this happen to you again, he wasn’t going to let anyone hurt you again. He was so angry with himself and that man, so much so that, in a way, he was glad that you’d needed all his attention when they’d arrived because he was almost certain he would have killed him in a fit of blind rage. He sighed and tried to sort through everything as he walked home briskly, not wanting to be away from you for too long, especially if you were in pain.

Back at the flat, Sherlock watched you doze from the couch. This was something entirely new for him and it sent him reeling- he’d never been in a situation where he really truly thought he was going to lose someone he cared about. There’d been the bomb scare with John but even then it hadn’t set in that there might be a loss. He’d never really cared about anyone- at least not in his mind.

He’d been terrified from the moment he’d received the text from Mycroft to watching Nicolas press the knife to your neck and it had made images of life without you flash through his mind- only adding to his fears. After that, it had been just pure anger, no one was going to get away with hurting you, with almost taking you from him, even now it called up a considerable amount of anger as his fists clenched with white knuckles.

He looked you over again and felt guilt overwhelm him along with a need to keep you safe, to protect you. He also felt strangely proud, despite the fact that he disliked that you hadn’t come to him, you had handled the initial situation very well and since then you’d displayed a great deal of strength. He supposed that was part of what he liked about you, you weren’t just some damsel in distress that needed to be rescued, you could fend for yourself… but it also meant that when you did need to be rescued you were in serious trouble.

Considering that for a moment, he then moved on to the most annoying part of this situation- his need to comfort and care for you. He didn’t mind being affectionate at times, liked it even, but feeling a need to fret over you constantly was really starting to peeve him. It wasn’t in his nature to be comforting and helpful and doing so was not only taking a toll on him but every minute longer increased the risk of him doing something wrong or being insensitive or snapping. John walked through the door just as he decided he was going to let your brother be responsible for you and your emotions while you were recovering, that way he would avoid upsetting you in its entirety.

John ran his fingers through your hair and you stirred as he hummed, “Wake up, Squeak.”

“Whats’it, Johnny?” you grumbled, your words slurred from sleep, and he cautiously stated, “I’ve got your meds. The pain won’t be as bad if you take them and then you can sleep all you want.”

You immediately shook your head, “I’m fine, John. It doesn’t hurt all that badly.”

“You have to take them, (F/n),” he countered firmly, completely aware that what you’d just said was a bald-faced lie.

“No. I don’t,” you growled, crossing your arms over your chest only to hiss and quickly pull them away as sharp pain radiated from the area.

“You’re obviously in a lot of pain, Squeak. Please just take them,” John coaxed, trying a gentle approach, but you just shook your head with a determined look on your face, “No.”

Your brother’s temper flared and he loudly snapped, “You are going to take them, (F/n). I’m a doctor and I say you have to. That’s final.”

“It’s my body. You can’t tell me what to do.” You threw back at a yell and that was how the shouting match began. Sherlock watched the two of you go at it for a minute, surprised and a bit intrigued over how quickly it had escalated and over something so small.

You and John hardly ever got angry with each other, argued- yes, bickered- of course… those things happened often- how could they not between siblings- but he’d only seen you angry with each other twice before. The first time when you’d went out for the night and the second when John had been upset over your relationship with him. Reminding himself that he and Mycroft acted similarly at times, Sherlock decided that it must be an escalated sibling thing caused by the stresses of the past week and cleared his throat to interrupt, “(F/n), you have to take your medication. Do I need to remind you that there are multiple ways for that to happen?”

Both you and your brother fell quiet and you grumbled, “Fine. I’ll take them.”

John gaped at you for a moment, nearly starting another argument over why you wouldn’t take the pills for him but you’d take them for Sherlock, and then decided that what really mattered was that you were taking them. Still, it upset him enough that he threw the bag in Sherlock’s lap with an annoyed growl, “Since you’re so good at getting her to take them, it’s now your responsibility to see to it that she does so.”

Sherlock picked up the bag and John grabbed his computer, retreated to his room, and slammed the door as you sighed, running a hand down your face, “I’ve hurt his feelings.”

He got up to get you some water as he hummed, “Yes, I believe you have but only because he doesn’t know that the sole reason you take them when I ask is to avoid having my hand clapped over your mouth until you swallow.”

“That’s a really underhanded way of getting me to take them you know,” you puffed, a hint of anger in your tone, and he simply responded, “If you would just take them when you were asked, I wouldn’t have to resort to that.”

You had your lip stuck out in a pout when he got back and perched on the small section of chair next to your legs, wrapping your hand around the glass of water for you as you mumbled, “I hate pills.”

He made sure you took them and then leaned forward to press a kiss to your nose as a reward, hoping that positive reinforcement would change your aversion to taking medication, “Good. You’ll start to feel better in less than an hour.”

You let out a small giggle despite your anger and he couldn’t help but smirk at the effect such a simple act from him had on you before returning to the couch as you sunk down further into the chair with a wiggle and went over your thoughts.

It was hard for you to get a grasp on the entire situation and the events of the last few days. Not being able to see anything made you feel almost as if this was a dream or that none of it had happened and it was difficult to process the events when you couldn’t see their effect on yourself and those around you. That didn’t stop you from being afraid both of being alone and of the endless black you saw every time you opened your eyes.

You were vulnerable and there was nothing you could do to change it, not to mention you were relieved that both Sherlock and John had turned out safe and sound in the end. The combination made you want to cling to one or both of them and not let go until you could see again but another part of you kept that from happening, the part that told you, you were independent and capable of handling yourself even in this situation… or at least it was until a few minutes later.

You started to feel a bit woozy when the meds finally kicked in and the fact that you felt bad about upsetting John started to get a bit overwhelming. Pushing yourself out of the chair, you took a moment to mentally get your bearings and then shuffled towards the stairs to John’s room.

Sherlock watched you carefully and quickly got up when he noticed that a pair of his shoes would inevitably trip you, catching you just as you went careening forward. You let out a squeak as he righted you and then demanded, “Where are you going?” 

“To talk to Johnny. I can get there on my own.”

You felt his arm snake around your waist as he started to guide you forward, “Do you remember what you told me when I was sick?”

“Vaguely,” you sighed and he thrummed, “Let me remind you then, you told me that accepting help does not mean you cannot do it on your own, it only enhances your ability to do it more efficiently and in less time.”

He quirked an eyebrow when you giggled and leaned into him, “You make me sound so smart. Thanks for giving me a hand, Sherly. It’s surely helpful.”

You laughed at your own lame wordplay, mumbling “Sherly and surely,” and then giggling while he rolled his eyes- looks like the meds had finally kicked in. You reached the stairs and, after some reassurances on your part, he let you climb them on your own and went back to the couch.

You reached the top and ran into the door, stepping back with a growl as you rubbed at your forehead. John pulled it open after hearing the thud you’d caused along with a muffled string of curses and scrutinized you for a second, “(F/n)?”

You threw an accusing look in his direction as you pouted, “The door was closed.”

“And you ran into it?” he guessed and you nodded, reaching out to find him and pull him into a hug, “I’m sorry about before John-John. Sherly’s just mean and puts a hand over my mouth to make me swallow… I licked him but it didn’t work.”

John couldn’t help but chuckle at your drugged state and pulled you into his room, nuzzling his nose into your hair, “Is that what he threatens you with to get you to take them?”

“Mhmm,” you responded, letting your clingy side take over as you snuggled into him, and John ushered you over to his bed, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before you passed out. He couldn’t have been more right as, only a few minutes after he sat down and let you snuggle him, you fell asleep on his shoulder. He tucked you into his bed, putting a pillow barrier on the side of your injured arm so you wouldn’t be tempted to roll in that direction, and then slipped out to let you rest while he went to figure out what they were going to do for dinner.


	70. Chapter 70

John refused to leave you alone for very long, not wanting you to wake up someplace unfamiliar alone, and ended up sorting through emails on his laptop in his room while you slept. He looked up when you groaned and your hand came up to rub at your forehead as you grumbled, “Merde… What- Where am I?”

“You’re in my bed,” John offered and you sighed, sitting up, “I’m sorry, Johnny. I didn’t mean to fall asleep up here. I’ll go back downstairs.”

You moved to leave, unable to stop the sharp gasp and cringe as pain rippled through your body, and John got up to ease you back down, “It’s alright, Squeak… I was actually wondering if you would stay up here with me tonight.”

“Why?” you asked warily, thinking it might be a ploy to get you to take his bed while he slept on the couch, and John wrapped his hand around yours, “You’ll be more comfortable here and then if you need anything you can just wake me.”

You blinked a couple of times and then hummed worriedly “Are you alright, John? Usually, I’m the one asking if I can sleep with you.”

He let out a heavy sigh and you squeezed his hand as he admitted, “I thought I was going to lose you, (F/n). I don’t think I’ve ever been so afraid in my life and you know all the things I’ve been through. I need to know that you’re ok… that you’re safe.”

You rubbed his hand between yours, “Alright, Johnny. I’ll stay.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple with a mumbled thank you and then you moved to get up again, wincing slightly, “I need to take a shower.”

“I’ll have to rebandage your arm,” he pointed out, helping you up, and you pursed your lips, “Is that alright? I just need to be clean.”

John carefully led you down the stairs, “Of course it’s alright, Squeak… Just be gentle washing your hair and try not to stress your shoulder. I’ll bring you a set of my night clothes.”

“Thanks, Johnny,” you murmured and slipped into the bathroom shutting the door behind you. After a quick shower, in which you found out exactly how hard it is to wash your hair without being able to raise your arm up over your head and some confusion as to what was body wash and what was shampoo, you felt a lot better aside from the pain that was slowly beginning to creep up on you again as the pain meds wore off. You managed to get dressed on your own, no small feat, and then carefully shuffled back out to the living room, your hair falling around your shoulders in a tangled mess.

“Stay there, Squeak. I’m coming,” John ordered when you appeared in the doorway, so you waited patiently for him to come wrap an arm around your waist and guide you to a chair at the table. Once you were sitting, he gently pushed back the sleeve of the shirt he’d lent you and frowned when you hissed softly from his just brushing your skin, looking over at Sherlock, “Sherlock- I think it’s time for another round of pain medication.”

The consulting detective opened his eyes to look you over and then slid off the couch to get you some water and another set of pills as John took your arm in his hands and carefully unwound the bandage. Neither John nor Sherlock had seen your arm injury since it had been gushing blood and when John finally pulled the last of the gauze away he let out a soft growl as his heart felt like it was being torn in two.

“Is it that bad?” you whispered, tucking your chin to your chest and scrunching your eyes closed. John dropped one hand to squeeze your knee, “It’s fine. I just didn’t realize-“

“That he’d carved his initials into me? Yeah… he said he wanted to label me as his to keep me from being unfaithful again,” you interrupted, your voice low and a little shaky.

Sherlock walked back in just then and nearly dropped the glass of water, working hard to keep his composure as he caught sight of the ‘NF’ branding your skin. Every time he thought he couldn’t possibly hate that man any more than he already did something new proved that he could. John recovered quickly, moving to clean it and then wrap it with a new bandage, and Sherlock clenched his jaw but gave you the pills so you could pop them in your mouth before placing the glass of water in your free hand. You swallowed them and he took it back from you as he pressed a kiss to your temple, “Good.”

John had never seen you take pills so willingly and you hadn’t even made a face, meaning you were probably lost in thought. He blinked a couple of times to try and comprehend not only that but that Sherlock had just oh so casually kissed you before shaking his head and helping you up, “Time for bed, Squeak. Let’s get you upstairs before those kick in.”

You just nodded and let him escort you up the stairs to his room and tuck you into his bed again before excusing himself to get ready for the night. You snuggled into the pillow and pulled the blankets up so you could bury your nose in them, inhaling your brother’s scent deeply. By the time he got back, you were feeling drugged and needy again, reaching out for him as you grumbled, “I need snuggles.”

He chuckled and slid into bed with you, letting you tuck yourself tightly to his side as you whimpered, “I was so afraid of losing you, Johnny. He said he would… he said…”

You couldn’t finish your thought and just buried your nose into his side with a shaky sigh as he stroked your hair, “I wouldn’t leave you like that, (F/n).”

He was surprised when you pulled back and tilted your face up towards him, “I could just see it, John… so vividly. It was just like that case. He was going to kill you or you were going to kill him and go to prison- either way I was going to lose you and it was going to be my fault.”

“What case was that, Squeak?” John huffed softly, mentally cursing your fantastic imagination for putting you through that, and you snuggled into him again as you responded sleepily, “The murder Sherly and I worked while you were gone.”

John was quiet for a moment as he thought that over, putting some things together in his head, and then decided to take advantage of your willingness to share in this state, “Was that when you had a panic attack?”

“Mmhmm,” you nodded into his chest and then yawned, “Just don’t tell, John. He’ll worry.”

Raising an eyebrow at your obviously drug-addled mind, he hugged you a little closer and mentally noted to have a ‘talk’ with Sherlock about that later as he hummed, “Go to sleep, (F/n).”

Your fingers gripped at his shirt tightly as you whispered in an extremely distressed voice, “Don’t leave me alone. I don’t want to be alone.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead as he hushed you, “I won’t, (F/n). I’ll be right here.”

You let out a relieved sigh and fell asleep clinging to him while John sorted through his thoughts. He was tremendously glad he’d asked you to stay with him, as it seemed you needed to be near him just as much he needed to be near you. He hadn’t realized you were so afraid of losing him in that way- though it explained why you hadn’t come to him and why you’d been so panicked when he and Sherlock had shown up, not to mention the episode in the hospital. John understood now why you didn’t like him to worry, knowing you were stressing and fretting over his wellbeing even when you were hurt and in trouble made him feel even guiltier. He sighed and nuzzled his nose into your hair, both of you were safe now and he was going to have to remind you of that every chance he got.


	71. Chapter 71

The next day was thankfully uneventful, both the boys needing a day to just process everything and you spending nearly the entire day asleep from the meds. They were both careful not to leave you alone so that when you did wake up you didn’t panic and John decided that for now he was going let Sherlock off the hook for the things you’d told him the night before since he seemed to have handled it well.

When it got late enough to go to bed, you were out cold curled up in Sherlock’s chair and John worried that if he moved you he’d hurt you in some way so he made sure Sherlock was going to stay on the couch and then left you where you were for the night. He was a bit relieved when the next morning you were still sleeping in exactly the same position and that you hadn’t woken up and freaked out.

You blinked awake when he was midway through making breakfast, slipping out of the chair to slowly navigate your way into the kitchen, hugging the wall and then the counter so you didn’t accidentally break any of Sherlock’s equipment, until you were next to John. He looked up with a little smile, “How do you do that? I never expected you to be able to get around without your vision… it’s impressive.”

You chuckled, “You know I have a good memory. As long as neither of you moves anything drastically, I can figure out where I am in relation to what I can feel around me pretty easily.”

He stopped what he was doing to press a mug of tea into your hands as he asked, “How are you feeling today?”

“Surprisingly good… My shoulder hurts a lot less and it doesn’t hurt to breathe anymore,” you hummed, bringing the mug to your lips, and John went back to what he was doing as he followed up, “And your vision? Anything new?”

You sighed, shaking your head, and he reassured, “It’s only been a few days… you just need to give it more time.”

You nodded and focused on finishing your tea before moving back to the other room, poking Sherlock’s leg until he moved to let you sit down on the couch with him. He stretched his legs over your lap as you leaned back and the two of you returned to your respective thoughts, each of you content just knowing that the other was there. That lasted about a half hour before you groaned, “I’m bored.”

John sighed, this was the moment he’d been dreading as you were quite possibly worse than Sherlock when you were bored. The first and only time your parents had ever taken away your sketchbook as a punishment, you’d destroyed the living room in less than a half hour in an attempt to stave off the boredom that involved dirt from a potted plant, a blank wall, the couch cushions, and an upended coffee table. You fidgeted with Sherlock’s trouser leg until John thought you might rip it and then abruptly shoved him off you and to the floor so you could get up.

“Where are you going, (F/n)?” John demanded as Sherlock sat up from the floor to glare at you for so rudely interrupting his thoughts.

“Down to my flat,” you huffed, finding your way to the door, and both John and Sherlock got up to follow you- neither of them had been in your flat since before you left for France. John was quick to catch your arm to safeguard against you tumbling down the stairs and Sherlock opened the door for you, his curiosity over what he might be able to read from the state of your flat getting the better of him.

They both paused in the doorway as you slowly made your way from the door to the trunk you used for storage that doubled as an end table. The flat wasn’t actually in that bad a state aside from the papers that had been strewn about when Nicolas threw your old sketchbook and the blood on the wall. You flipped the trunk open and then just sat next to it for a moment as the boys made their way into the flat, John to help you with whatever you’d come down for and Sherlock to poke around the papers on the floor.

Having pulled up your organization system for the trunk in your head, you dipped a hand into it and started fingering things until you came to what you wanted. Just as you pulled it out, you heard the rustle of paper and snapped, “Leave it, Sherlock. No one needs to see any of that. Not even you. As soon as I can see again I’m going to burn it and throw the ashes in the Thames.”

John was surprised at the anger in your tone, looking over at the papers with a new curiosity as you went back to rooting around your trunk and Sherlock stepped away from the area, “Judging from the papers on the floor, that is your main sketchbook from the time you were with that man. He used it to call up a painful memory and put you in a state of fear so you wouldn’t try to fight back but you still did. You filed many domestic abuse complaints but they were always dismissed because he was law enforcement and they believed their own over you even with the hospital reports. You saved every police report and-“

“Shut up, Sherlock!” John snapped, seeing your face scrunch up and your hand pause as it began to shake violently.

Snapping out of it, you pulled the second thing you wanted out of the trunk and slammed it shut, putting the two things on top of it so you could get up. John could see you were feeling a bit distraught and scooped up your things, “I’ve got them, Squeak. Let’s go back upstairs.”

You just nodded and he motioned for Sherlock to guide you, hoping to both keep you from tripping and him from nosing around what you’d asked him to leave alone. Sherlock’s large hand found its way to your hip and he frowned when he felt that you were shaking, keeping you in front of him as he directed you out of your flat, up the stairs, and into his chair, where John handed you your things.

What you had grabbed, a thick ream of origami paper you’d collected over the years and a small tub of clay, managed to keep you entertained for the rest of the day and when night rolled around, you had a small stack of neatly folded cranes. John picked up one, admiring it as he asked, “You know how to fold other things, Squeak. Why so many cranes?”

You sighed, pausing your folding of yet another crane, “There’s a Japanese legend that anyone who folds a thousand origami cranes will be granted a wish. I figured since there isn’t much else I can do why not test it… if anything it’ll keep me occupied for a while and they’ll look pretty when I’m finished”

He ruffled your hair with a chuckle, “Sounds interesting- if it keeps you from being bored I’m all for it.”

You folded a few more and then yawned, shifting to curl up in the chair. John lifted his eyes just as Sherlock hummed, “It’s better for your ribs if you stretch out, (F/n). Take my room.”

“I couldn’t-“

“Either way, I’m going to stay on the couch. You might as well take it.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” you sighed, getting up to move towards his room, and John called, “Are you sure-“

“She’ll be fine, John. It’s better that she doesn’t have to climb the stairs anyway.”

You left them to discuss that, feeling a little smothered and glad for a bit of time alone, and slowly flopped across Sherlock’s bed. You’d only been in his room a handful of times before and it felt a little strange being in there now, especially on your own. You brushed off the feeling with a sigh and snuggled into his comforter as you pushed away the niggling fear of being alone in favor of the sense of peace that came with not having anyone fretting over you or watching your every move.

You rolled on to your good side, finding one of Sherlock’s pillows and burying your face into it to take in his smell. He’d been so distant since you got home from the hospital. Aside from the customary kiss when you took your pills, he pretty much ignored you and it was starting to get to you. You missed chatting or having a playful argument with him and you almost wished you had a case just so you could hear his deductions or that he’d at least play a game with you. You hugged the pillow a little closer as you wondered if you’d done something wrong or if maybe you weren’t interesting to him without your sight and then let out a forlorn sigh.

Deciding that there wasn’t much you could do about it, you rolled onto your back, stretching your legs out and throwing your arm over your head, and then slipped into the world of dreams.


	72. Chapter 72

It seemed your mind was determined to torment you since a few hours later you went from peaceful to whimpering as you thrashed slightly, a layer of sweat glistening on your forehead. You jolted awake but found no relief, the darkness that now loomed every time you opened your eyes made the nightmare seem unending. You rolled to your side and whimpered, trying to erase the images from your mind, before finding the floor with your feet and stumbling out to the living room.

Clinging to the door frame, you quietly called, “Sherlock?” 

You got no response and took a step forward, trying again as your voice grew increasingly distraught, “Sherly?”

His eyes snapped open and he blinked at you a couple of times, hoping you’d go to John if he kept quiet. No such luck. You panicked slightly and took a few quick steps into the room, a mistake since it put you in a space with nothing around you for you to get your bearings. Realizing this too late, you spun a little frantically, searching for anything to hold on to, and then let out a single sob, sinking to the floor and pulling your legs up to your chest as you whimpered, “Sherlock.”

His heart broke a little and he got up as he hummed, “I’ve told you not to sit like that until your ribs have healed, (F/n).”

You lifted your head hesitantly, whispering, “Sherlock?”

His hand wrapped around your arm to pull you up as he responded, “Obviously.”

“I-I didn’t mean to- I just-“ you tried before wrapping yourself around him as you sniffled, “C-Can I stay out here with you?”

He sighed, sounding a little annoyed, but still pulled you over to the couch, “I suppose.”

You let him pull you down on top of him and he noticed that, despite the fact that you were a little shaken and in need of comfort, you didn’t melt into him like you normally did. He hesitated, going over things in his head to try and figure out what might be bothering you, and then falteringly ran his hands down your back as he demanded, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I had a nightmare,” you mumbled and he moved a hand up to tangle in your hair as the other rested on your hip, “It’s more than that.”

You fingered the front of his shirt for a moment and then quietly asked, “Did I do something wrong?”

He furrowed his brow in confusion, “What in the world gave you that idea?”

Tensing even more, to the point you were rigid against him, you huffed, “You’ve hardly said a word to me since we got back from the hospital… I thought- I thought things were getting better. Am I not interesting to you anymore because I can’t see? Or do you not want me because he marked me? Or-“

“Shut up, (F/n),” he growled and then pressed a kiss to the top of your head, “How could you think such idiotic things?”

You didn’t answer, tucking your nose into his shirt, and he realized he might have made a mistake in leaving everything to John. He’d been trying not to make things worse, as he often seemed to do, by watching over you but keeping his distance. How had he missed that you were feeling like he was ignoring you because you weren’t important to him anymore?

Thinking it over for a second, he cursed himself- he’d been acting on the premise that you would just read him like you normally did and understand what he was doing… he hadn’t considered that you would miss it because you couldn’t see. It made sense now- he’d hardly talked to you and when he did his voice was flat and lacking any sort of emotion- with only that to go by of course you felt that something had changed between the two of you.

He went back to running his hands down your back as he contemplated how to fix this and then decided that only the truth could do so, softly humming, “You didn’t do anything wrong, (F/n). I doubt that you could ever cease to be interesting to me… I was trying not to upset you by being brusque or insensitive.”

You relaxed as you thought that over and then chuckled softly, bringing a hand up to his face to trace your thumb over his cheekbones, “Oh Sherly… you don’t have to do that. I’m more than used to you being brusque or insensitive. It doesn’t bother me… in fact, I kind of expect it.”

You could feel him pout and you tilted your head back to kiss the underside of his chin, “Stop that. It’s part of who you are. You don’t need to change it for me.”

He tilted his head down to give you a proper kiss on the lips and then you nuzzled into his neck, letting your body settle into the contours of his as you let go of all the tension from before. There was a long period of comfortable silence in which he rested his cheek on your head and stroked at your hip with his thumb as he enjoyed having you pressed against him for the first time in a while- it made him feel whole. He was nearly asleep when you whispered, “Sherlock?”

“Yes, love?” he responded in a low hum and you huffed, “I can’t sleep.”

Sherlock shifted beneath you before tangling a hand in your hair, “You aren’t alone, (F/n).”

Unsurprised that he’d guessed at what was keeping you awake, you worried, “But what if I am? Earlier it was like I was lost in the never-ending dark and that was from just taking a few wrong steps… even if I’m not, I wake up and the nightmares just continue as if I’m still asleep.”

“I’ll be with you to keep that from happening and if you’d like I can stay with you at night from now on,” he offered, making it sound far less selfish than it actually was. He wanted to protect you so that he could ease his fretful mind and to sleep every night with you tucked next to him- he always slept better, thought better even, when that was the case.

You chuckled softly, your hand traveling down his side in a way that made his breath stick in his throat, “I’d very much like that.”

He gave a small smirk as he let his own hand slide over to firmly cup your rear, giving it a hesitant experimental squeeze, and you let out a muffled squeak into his chest as he hummed, “Go to sleep, (F/n).”

You giggled through a yawn and then pressed a kiss to his neck, “Night, Sherly.”

Being the cheeky git that he was, he kept his hand on your rear but kissed the top of your head as he tiredly mumbled, “Goodnight, love.”


	73. Chapter 73

It was a relatively quiet morning in 221B… unfortunately, it only lasted about five minutes before all hell broke loose. It started with John coming down to begin his morning as he normally did, with eggs and the paper, only to find you pressed against Sherlock with his hand resting somewhere it shouldn’t. There were a lot of things John could handle: combat pressure, Sherlock’s boredom, malevolent criminals, but not this. He was even starting to get used to the occasional acts of affection between the two of you but this… this was just too much.

Before he could do anything, you let out a soft whimper in your sleep and your face turned pained, causing John to temporarily abandon his anger for concern. The way you were sleeping was obviously putting a lot of pressure on one of your broken ribs, probably had been all night, and he watched you shift just enough so that the pain didn’t wake you.

Your brother sighed, rubbing his forehead- he was going to have to wake you since letting you stay that way would only slow the healing process. He stepped forward but just as he did, Sherlock shifted beneath you and you shot up with a sharp gasp, clutching at your side as you scrunched your face up in pain. Awakened by the sudden movement, Sherlock quickly sat upright, hands hovering over you hesitantly as he readjusted so you were sitting between his legs, “Did I-“

You quickly shook your head, gasping, “No, it wasn’t you. I was sleeping wrong.”

John joined the two of you, sitting on the edge of the coffee table as you tried to take a deep breath, “Let me see, Squeak.”

He caught the edge of your shirt when you shifted in his direction and you could feel his fingers on your bare skin a second later as he probed the area, “The pain’s passed, John. I’m sure it’s fine.”

Sherlock’s fingers stroked at your hip worriedly as he examined the bruises patterning your sides, logically he had known they were there but seeing them gave him a sobering glimpse of reality. Deciding no further damage had been done, John let your shirt fall and was about to start in on you for sleeping on Sherlock and Sherlock for getting handsy when Sherlock’s phone rang. 

Seeing that your brother was on the verge of starting something unpleasant, he answered it willingly before getting a wide grin on his face and stating, “We’ll be right there.”

“Case?” John wondered when he hung up and Sherlock nodded happily, “Quadruple murder.”

They both moved from the couch, falling into habit as they grabbed their things and got ready, until you queried in an innocent voice, “Can I come?”

They froze, having momentarily forgotten about your current state, and Sherlock was quick to firmly supply, “No. John will stay with you.”

You pouted, “Please? Just because I can’t see doesn’t mean I’m not entirely sick of being in this flat.”

“You won’t be able to keep up. You stay,” Sherlock countered in a final tone and you pursed your lips, “At least take John then. He shouldn’t have to stay behind on my account.”

“Fine. Come on, John,” Sherlock huffed distractedly, returning to pulling on his coat. John looked between you and Sherlock a couple of times before stating, “We can’t just leave her alone.”

Sherlock paused, having been distracted enough to not realize that you’d be alone, and they both came to the same conclusion, simultaneously exclaiming, “Mrs. Hudson.”

The next few minutes had you standing in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen as John fretted and demanded that if either of you needed anything at all you were to call him and Sherlock shuffled impatiently on the curb outside. You shooed John before the consulting detective left without him and then settled in for a day with Mrs. Hudson.

Once the initial rush died down, John fixed Sherlock with a glare from across the cab but if the man noticed he didn’t show it. It wasn’t until they were approaching the crime scene that Sherlock dully stated, “I suggest you gather your funny little thoughts and stop your angry pouting. Otherwise, you’ll be more useless than Anderson.”

“I’d hardly call it angry pouting,” John snapped and Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Dare I even ask what trivial thing has upset you this time?”

John turned a furious shade of red as he seethed, “Your hand on my sister’s arse, you twat. Or did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“Actually-“

“Don’t you dare say you did,” John growled and Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “It’s not as if it was against her wishes- in fact, I would say she rather-“

“Shut it,” John bellowed in exasperation causing Lestrade, who they were approaching, to whip around to look at them. With only a glance, he could see Sherlock had done something to upset John again and wasn’t particularly surprised, it was common for them to show up that way. He offered John a sympathetic smile as Sherlock strode past him to examine the body, “What’s he done this time?”

John just held up his hands and let out a huff as he shook his head, not wanting to discuss it any further, but Sherlock was quick to begin, “It would seem his fantastically simple mind is having trouble processing my relation-“

“No! No. Stop there. We are not discussing this here,” John cried, emphasizing it with a couple of pointed fingers and a wave, and Sherlock shrugged, giving all his focus to his deductions. Lestrade looked between the two of them, deciding to drop the topic to avoid John storming off, and then dropped his hand on the doctor’s shoulder, “How’s (F/n)?”

He sighed, ruffling a hand through his hair, “As well as can be expected I suppose. She doesn’t like to be alone but that’s understandable.”

Lestrade nodded, rubbing the back of his neck, and went to continue the conversation but Sherlock loudly snapped, “John.”

Giving a frustrated sigh, John responded to the call with a mumbled curse, leaving Lestrade to ponder what exactly the two of them were arguing about this time.


	74. Chapter 74

“The boyfriend is without a doubt guilty, that heartless prat,” you exclaimed, nearly throwing your newest crane towards the source of the noise. Mrs. Hudson chuckled, looking up from her task of assisting you with your hair to the TV screen, and wondered if maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to introduce you to The Jeremy Kyle Show.

She’d enjoyed her day with you, treating you like the daughter she’d never had since it was obvious to her that those boys upstairs had no idea how to take proper care of a woman. You’d come to her with your hair in a tangled mess wearing the same set of nightclothes you’d borrowed from John nearly three days before, so she’d set to work.

After some assurances from you, Mrs. Hudson had allowed you to go over to your flat alone to change and gather some things and you came back dressed in a loose white cotton v-neck and a pair of blue and white striped pajama shorts with a cute flowery lace edging- not your usual choice but going by feel it was one of the only things you were sure of. Since then, she’d washed and conditioned your hair in the sink, brushed out all the knots, and then left it to dry, all the while chatting with you about life and your respective friends. It was when she’d sat down to paint your nails that she flipped on Jeremy Kyle, since you couldn’t occupy yourself with making cranes while she had your hands, and two episodes later you were hooked.

Now, with both your nails and hair dry, she was taking a moment to tame your hair into a fashionable style while you added a few more cranes to the growing pile on her kitchen table, “(F/n), dear, you’re as bad as Sherlock… always shouting at the telly.”

You giggled, remembering when John thought it would be a good idea to include him in the Wednesday movie night tradition the two of you had started- never again. He’d nearly thrown his violin at the television in exasperation… to be fair Lord of the Rings probably wasn’t the best choice of a movie for him. Too much fantasy and not enough logic.

Both you and Mrs. Hudson were tossing comments at the tv where a man had allegedly cheated on his fiancé with her mother when John and Sherlock walked through the front door, Sherlock acting impervious to John’s continued anger. The consulting detective went straight up the stairs and your brother came to retrieve you, knocking lightly on Mrs. Hudson’s door. She finished fixing your hair and then patted the top of your head as she offered, “Looks like your brother’s home. I’ll be right back, dear.”

You nodded and a moment later felt John’s lips on your temple as he murmured, “We’re back, Squeak. Sorry to leave you for so long.”

Using the opportunity of knowing where he was, you pulled him to you in a hug as you laughed, “Don’t be. We had a fantastic day, didn’t we Mrs. H?”

“The very best,” the woman supplied with a smile, “Though I’m afraid I may have gotten her hooked on Jeremy Kyle.”

John chuckled, helping you up to take you back upstairs, “He is a bit addictive, isn’t he?”

You wrapped the arm not in a sling around your brother’s waist so he could lead you as you huffed, “The things people can get themselves into, Johnny… it’s just fascinating.”

He paused in the doorway to say goodnight to Mrs. Hudson and you gave her a wide grin, “Thank you so much for spoiling me today, Mrs. Hudson. I’m sure my hair was absolutely atrocious with me not being able to run a brush through it since my shoulder.”

“It was no problem, dear. You just come down to me when you need help with the girly things those boys don’t understand.”

You giggled a goodnight and John ushered you up the stairs as you hummed, “How was your day, Johnny? Was it a good case?”

“It is. Sherlock’s fairly occupied,” he sighed and you pursed your lips suspiciously, “What’s wrong? You two aren’t fighting again are you?”

Thinking about how to answer you for a moment, he decided it was best not to upset you with something he didn’t particularly want to get into with you right now and replied, “Just Sherlock being Sherlock, Squeak. That’s all.”

In a way it was the truth- it was just Sherlock being his usual bastardly twat of a self- and you accepted his explanation with a nod just as you reached the door to the flat, “Go relax then. I’ll do my best to keep him from bothering you any further.”

John clenched his jaw- he knew you were just trying to be nice but since it was you and Sherlock together that was the problem your offer wasn’t exactly helpful. It turned out not to matter because Sherlock stopped his pacing when you came in to babble at John about the case and, after settling you on the couch, they started a heated debate over possible motives.

You sighed, trying not to tune in since they weren’t about to let you come with them when they left again and if you couldn’t go you didn’t really want to know what you were missing. After a minute, you felt a little bold and had an idea, slipping off the couch and into the kitchen with a slow precision to complete your task. You’d challenged yourself in your mind and there was no going back… besides, you liked a challenge.

It fell quiet just as you walked out of the kitchen again and you could hear Sherlock flop frustratedly on the couch and John’s chair at the table scrape as he sat down at his laptop. Deciding that your brother would be easier to deal with at the moment, you worked your way over to him and poked his shoulder as you proudly hummed, “Here. I made tea.”

You could practically feel him do a double take after he took it from your hands but just offered a grin and shuffled to Sherlock, hesitantly sitting down on the coffee table when you found it, “Sherly, have some tea.”

“Quiet, (F/n), Can’t you see I’m trying to think?” he snapped in annoyance and John choked on his tea, coughing a little, but you were unfazed, simply offering a chipper, “Nope.”

It took him a moment to process that but when he did his eyes snapped open and his head whipped around to look at you, taking in your more polished appearance before focusing on your face. Your new attire showed off both your bruises and your legs more prominently and Mrs. Hudson had pulled back your hair into a ponytail with the perfect amount of soft pieces falling around your face.

You were blinking absently at your lap with his blue swirl mug cradled in both hands and, despite your casual response and the small smile you were offering him, he could see he’d unintentionally smashed down on a particularly sensitive topic and that it had hurt you. Even so, you tried again with a soft huff, “You can think while drinking tea.”

He shifted to sit up and you heard the change, offering him the mug with both hands, “Come on- I made it special and if you take it I’ll keep quiet.”

Realizing how difficult it must have been for you to make it, he wrapped his hands over yours on the mug and leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to your lips as he murmured, “Thank you.”

You sighed, knowing that was his way of apologizing, and then made sure he had the mug in his hands as John set in to scold you, “It was nice of you to make us tea, (F/n), but you could have burned yourself or broken some- wait a minute… how did you get Sherlock’s mug?”

Giving a one-shouldered shrug, you offered, “Same way I usually do- I used a chair.”

“…A chair,” John repeated slowly and you attempted to diffuse the situation before it actually started, “I know I shouldn’t have, Johnny, but you guys have been out all day and you were stressing. I just-“

You sighed heavily, “I just wanted to be helpful.”

John opened his mouth and then closed it before letting the air in his lungs out through his nose, sighing, “It’s alright, Squeak. Just don’t do it again.”

“I promise I won’t,” you vowed softly and you suddenly felt a hand around yours pulling you in the direction of the couch. You moved so you were sitting next to Sherlock and he let go, going back to his tea as John watched with narrowed eyes. Throughout all this, even the kiss, Sherlock looked completely emotionless, even to his experienced eye, but he was obviously feeling something.

It was a bit unsettling.

He shook his head, it had been a long day and he honestly couldn’t deal with any of this anymore so he gave you a kiss on the forehead with a mumbled goodnight and went up to his room. At least there he wouldn’t witness anything else troubling.

“It will come back, (F/n),” Sherlock hummed as soon as John was gone, deducing that you were fretting, and you just curled up facing the back of the couch without a word.

A look of annoyance crossed his face, he had more important things to be thinking about with the new case, but he still tried again, making his voice as soft as he could through clenched teeth, “You’ll see again, (F/n). Your brain just needs more time to heal.”

Still no response.

He lost what little patience he had and grabbed your arm to pull you to him as he sat back to go into his mind palace again, letting you settle between his bent legs with your back to his chest. The only response he got was your hand settling on top of his when he rested it on your hip and a soft sigh when he kissed the top of your head. You were thinking in the same deep way he often did, he realized, and, with only a passing wonder at what you might be thinking about, he dove into his own thoughts for the night.


	75. Chapter 75

It was around two in the morning when Sherlock’s phone woke you and when he didn’t pick it up you fumbled for it, reaching up over your heads towards the noise until you found it on the arm of the couch.

“ ‘ello?” you answered groggily, pulling your free arm from the sling to rub at your eye. Lestrade’s voice started to pour through the phone and you scrunched your eyes tightly closed as you slurred, “Hol’ on. Lemme get’im for you.” 

You held the phone over your head, unintentionally smashing it into Sherlock’s face as you huffed in a steady slur, “Sherly… phone’s for you. S’bout the case.”

Startling out of his thoughts at the phone hitting him, he took it from you and you rolled to your good side as he lowly growled, “What?” into the receiver. You snuggled into him, letting the rumble of his voice as he talked with Lestrade lull you back to sleep, only to be woken a moment later when Sherlock sat up and yelled, “JOHN!”

Sitting up with him, you slumped forward, rubbing at your eyes with your good hand as you heard John pretty much tumble down the stairs and into the room, his slur matching yours, “Whas’it, Sherlock? Whas’wrong?“

“Change. We’re leaving,” Sherlock demanded, already throwing on his coat, and your brother mumbled a sleepy curse but still bounded back up the stairs. You sighed and curled back up in the space where Sherlock had been with a tired yawn, intent on going back to sleep. This attempt was quickly thwarted when Sherlock pulled you up from the couch, causing you to whine, “ S’too early, Sherlock.”

He gave a little chuckle, herding you towards his room and into his bed, “Go back to sleep in here.”

You snuggled into his covers and he left you without a second thought, still beating John to the door, “Keep up, John.”

It wasn’t until they were in a cab halfway across town, that John realized they’d left you alone, “Damnit… We left (F/n) in the flat on her own.”

Sherlock didn’t even miss a beat, “She’s sleeping. She won’t even know.”

John pursed his lips at his flatmate, “And what about when she wakes up or has a nightmare, you daft git? She’s going to panic. We have to go back.”

“It’s too late to go back now, John. She’ll be fine,” Sherlock countered but John caught the hint of realization and then worry in his face, marveling at how easily his friend’s mind discarded other things when he was focusing on a case.

There was a brief moment of silence and then Sherlock huffed, “Call her.”

John pulled out his phone and did as he asked, listening to it ring twice before your groggy voice came up on the other line, “ S’the matter, Johnny? D’you forget somethin’?”

“In a way, Squeak… I’m so sorry. We left you by yourself,” John admitted, trying to break it to you as gently as possible.

To his surprise, you hummed, “S’ok, John. I knew that. I’ll call Mrs. H if anything comes up.”

Before he could get any further, you hung up and he let out a heavy sigh, refocusing himself on the case as a distraction from all the things that might happen back at the flat running through his head. At the same time, Sherlock hoped that you’d just sleep peacefully while they were gone since he had told you that he would be there to keep you from getting lost or waking from a nightmare alone and now he wasn’t. His mind called up a brief glimpse of the scene from the night before, with you whimpering on the floor, and his jaw set before he banished it and let his mind focus entirely on the case.

Their worry was unwarranted as you slept just fine until late morning, Sherlock’s scent and previous words offering enough security for you not to fall into another nightmare, and when you did wake Mrs. Hudson just so happened to be tidying the flat. You trudged out of Sherlock’s room, startling her slightly, and then she was quick to offer you tea, which you turned down, “Thank you but no, Martha, I’m feeling a little tired today. I think I’m going to go back to sleep for a bit.”

“Of course dear, I’ll leave the door open and you just yell if you need anything… It’s nice to see you and Sherlock are getting on. You two make such a good pair.”

You offered her a weak grin and a thank you and then shuffled back into Sherlock’s room, curling up into a ball with his comforter wrapped around you. In all honesty, it wasn’t so much that you were tired, it was more you were feeling depressed over not being able to see compounded with the fact that you had gotten left behind in the flat again. You stayed that way until late afternoon when a familiar voice rang out in the flat, “(F/n)?”

Before you could get up or respond it came again, this time much closer, “It’s well past noon, (F/n). Time to get up.”

“Why? It’s all the same to me, Mycroft… just never-ending dark,” you grumbled, feeling him sit on the bed behind you. Seeing his assumption that you might need some cheering up was correct, he pursed his lips at the lump in the bed that was you, “I was under the impression that you wanted to get out of the flat.”

You perked up, rolling toward him hopefully, “You’d take me?”

“Not if you’re going to wallow in self-pity.”

He couldn’t help but give a small smile as you practically tumbled out of bed, “I’ll be nothing but cheer. I promise.”

Finding him, you grabbed his hand and tugged him out to the living room with confidence that ended only when you couldn’t find the door. He was quick to take the lead as he pointed out, “You’ll need to put on some decent clothes.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but be slightly impressed by how well you managed to maneuver, waiting outside your flat for you as you dressed and pulled your jacket on one arm, letting the other sleeve hang loose so you could keep your sling on. You had on a grin that could have lit even the darkest night when you emerged and he took up your hand to wrap it around the crook of his elbow, “How does a walk in the park and some tea sound to you, my dear?”

“Divine,” you sighed happily, nearly squealing in delight when you felt the cold air outside nip against your cheeks. You turned your face in the direction of your companion and offered a small grin, “I really appreciate this, Mycroft. I know you’re very busy.”

“You are more than welcome, (F/n). Even I need a break every so often… besides I’m particularly interested to see my brother’s reaction.”

You chuckled, knowing that Sherlock probably wouldn’t be happy about this but not particularly caring if it meant you got to go out, and the two of you set off down the street for a pleasant afternoon walk.


	76. Chapter 76

The flat was deadly quiet as Sherlock and John walked up the front steps, the case solved and the criminal caught with only minor scrapes and bruises. John was too exhausted to really notice the emptiness but Sherlock did and it put him on edge. He knew you weren’t home before they even stepped through the door and while John did a slightly frantic search for you, he stood in the doorway and silently panicked. Images of you being taken by Moriarty or something equally horrible flashed through his head before his eyes flicked over the living room and he made a deduction that replaced his fears with something else entirely. John came back in with a look of pure panic on his face just as Sherlock gritted out, “Mycroft.”

It had just begun to rain when you and Mycroft started to make your way back to the flat from the small café down the street, your friend tucking you close to his side as he held his ever-present umbrella over your heads. You were holding your hand out to the feel the rain with a content giggle when Mycroft’s phone rang, causing him to purse his lips suspiciously since he’d had Anthea screen all his calls while he was with you so that only those that could not be ignored came through.

Turning to blink at him when he stopped, you heard him pick up and settled in to wait patiently, pulling your other arm from its sling so you could catch the rainwater in your hands. Mycroft listened to his brother fume through the phone for a moment and then simply offered, “I was not the one who left her home alone, Sherlock. As your brother, it is my duty to correct your faults. That is all I have done. If anything, you should be thanking me- she is not only safe but her mood has improved significantly.”

As if to solidify his point, you let out a happy giggle that could be heard through the phone and then, much to his dismay, splashed your handful of water in his face with scary accuracy. He let out an annoyed huff, wiping a hand down his face, and sighed into the phone, “I’m afraid I have to go, brother dearest.”

There was nothing that could put a damper on the giant smile on your face as he hung up and slowly enunciated, “Don’t ever do that again.”

You laughed and slipped your arms around him in a hug, “Je suis désolé, Mycroft. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up. I can practically see your face.”

He was unsure of how to respond to your hug as he honestly couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given him one but didn’t want to ruin your joy, even if it was at his expense. This led to him carefully wrapping his free arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer to him for a second as he’d seen the little people around him often do, “I will forgive you but only this once.”

Letting him go, you offered a full grin and then hummed, “Come on. Let’s get home before Sherlock has a conniption and my brother decides to shoot you.”

John had never seen Sherlock like this- he stood at the window, looking out blankly with his jaw clenched so tightly he could practically hear it creaking and his knuckles white around the phone that looked like it was going to crumble into dust any moment. Your brother was less concerned but concerned all the same as he still held tight to his belief that Mycroft was a dangerous man despite all he had done to help you so far. The thought of his ray of sunshine little sister out with the coldest and most foreboding man he’d ever met while she couldn’t see wasn’t exactly a pleasant one.

Sherlock’s phone gave a detrimental sounding click as his grip tightened on it when he spotted you and Mycroft mounting the steps to the flat, chatting about god knows what. He spun around a moment later when Mycroft swung open the door to the flat and ushered you through, “Here we are, my dear.”

“Johnny?” you called out worriedly and John was quick to pull you into a hug, “I’m here, Squeak. Are you alright?”

You huffed, “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He just sighed in response and you chuckled, “Mycroft isn’t all that scary, John. We’ve been over this.”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow but before he could say anything Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him out to the landing, slamming the door behind him before shoving his brother up against the wall.

“What do you want from her?” Sherlock calmly stated, his physical position betraying his true emotions. Mycroft scrutinized his brother with a quirked eyebrow and pursed lips, looking curious and a bit bored more than anything else, “Jealous are we, little brother?”

Sherlock growled but let him down and stepped back as Mycroft straightened his suit, offering, “To answer your question- I find her an acceptable companion. In a purely platonic way, of course… Now if I may, I’d like to turn your own question on you- what is it that you want from her, Sherlock?”

Sherlock opened his mouth but found that he didn’t have an answer, shutting it as he got a contemplative look on his face and Mycroft continued, “Your interest in her troubled me at first -even more so once I’d met her as I’m sure your interest stems from the fact that she is naturally enigmatic- but I’ve since found that she is rather intriguing. From your behavior with her around, I’m sure you’ve noticed that, while there are some negatives, she does increase your efficiency and lessens your need to act out in a self-destructive way. The only concern I have is for both your safety and hers. There is no guarantee that you will be able to protect her in the future. With all that in mind, I ask you again- What is it that you want from her?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and then slumped his shoulders forward as if admitting defeat, “Love.”

Mycroft wasn’t surprised by his brother’s answer but by the fact that he had just willingly admitted it, examining him for a moment before locking eyes, “Then I warn you to tread lightly, brother mine. There are sacrifices you may have to make, weaknesses that others will exploit… but I won’t intervene and, as amusing as it is to toy with you, I can assure you it is not my intent entangle myself with her romantically.”

Sherlock’s glare at his brother didn’t wane as he said goodbye and took his leave. Once the door downstairs gave definitive click shut, he slipped back into the flat to find you with your head in John’s lap on the couch and an old Disney movie playing on the television. John shot him a questioning look, which he pointedly ignored, and he lifted your legs to sit under them, giving you an opportunity to catch his hand and give it a firm squeeze. He looked over to your face, your eyes where closed and you seemed to be listening to the movie intently, and then squeezed back- after the last encounter with Mycroft, he didn’t doubt your devotion to him.

It was Mycroft’s intentions he’d been concerned about, that he would always be concerned about, and on top of that, the little talk they’d just had had given him quite a bit to think about. He leaned back, blocked out John’s questioning gaze, tuned out the music from the tv, and dove into his mind palace. He’d long since devoted a suite to you and only you and threw the doors to it open now, finding it a jumbled mess with nothing where it should be.

Normally his files presented themselves as a sort of floating screen with everything tucked away digitally for when he might need it next but today they were corporal, sheets of paper and stiff silver folders strewn around the floor. He toed some of the mess, spotting a paper that noted that you liked flowers as well as what type that had been long since buried somewhere he couldn’t find it and a folder assigned to the variations of your smile. Ignoring the chaos, he navigated his way to where the mess seemed to stem from, the identical replica of his chair in the center of the room, and scooped up the sole file that was resting on it before sitting down with it in his lap. It was simply labeled ‘Love’ and when opened it was empty.

He looked at the mess and then down at the folder before getting up and gathering some of the things from the floor to begin what was obvious to him that he needed to do- he needed to fill that folder with everything he loved about you.

He looked at some of the things he’d picked up and furrowed his brow as he tried to decide what belonged in the folder and what didn’t, finding it difficult to bring himself to label anything with the word ‘love’ as it had long since been a taboo in his mind. He stared at them for a long while and then decided to approach it a different way, settling down in his chair again and closing his eyes as he folded his hands beneath his chin. He called you up in his inner mind’s eye, one mind level deeper than the one he was currently at, and just let images of you play through his head for a moment before noting things that he would miss if they were gone- like the way your nose scrunched up when you laughed really hard, how you murmured his name when you were sleepy, and the way you managed to bring out the heart he’d never known he’d had.

When he finished and opened his eyes the mess was gone, like it had never even existed in the first place, and in his lap was the folder. He ran his fingers over it for a moment and then hesitantly flipped it open to find simply an image of you and nothing more. He ran his fingers over it, finding that when he did it pulled up other folders with specifics, but his mind’s overall message was clear- he loved you.


	77. Chapter 77

When Sherlock came out of it, John was gone and you were lying on your back where he’d been, humming to yourself with your good arm thrown over your head as you kneaded the outside of his thigh with your toes. He blinked at you for a moment, unsure of what to do with his latest discovery, and then poked your foot as he huffed, “What are you doing?”

“Dunno… bored,” you admitted before giggling, “Did you have a nice think?”

Not particularly wanting to delve into what he’d been thinking about, he answered with a question, “What happened to John?”

“I sent him to bed when he started to snore.”

“How long ago was that?”

You froze as you thought that over and then tilted your head to the side, “I’m not sure. Time passes differently when you can’t see… an hour maybe. Could have been longer.“

He pulled your legs straight so they were in his lap again and you flexed your toes to a point with a quiet sigh, “Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Would you teach me to play the violin?”

Normally he would have immediately said no- no one touched his violin but him and he certainly didn’t have the patience to teach other people with their slow minds- but, with the conclusion he’d just come to and the fact that it was you, he decided to look deeper.

Sherlock scrutinized you for a moment before answering, “You only want to learn because you’re bored and afraid. You need something more complex to occupy your mind than folding cranes- understandable- but your request really stems from your need to have a creative outlet should your vision not return… It will, (F/n).”

The corners of your lips pulled down in a frown, “And if it doesn’t? John’s worried Sherlock. He thinks I can’t tell but I can hear it in his voice- he’s worried that nothing has changed. It should be getting better but it’s not. What happens if it never does?”

You didn’t wait for an answer, frustrated tears starting to roll down your cheeks as you tumbled, “My entire life has revolved almost exclusively on my ability to see and now I can’t even get from one side of the flat to the other, much less draw or paint. I thought at least maybe I could create music but I probably can’t do that either. What am I supposed to do? I can’t do anything. I can’t even fix my stupid sling from being stuck on my bloody shirt.”

In the time it took him to blink, he went over his options in his head and then gave an inaudible sigh- he didn’t want you to cry, which meant he was going to have to make an attempt at comforting again. Hoping that he would be able to get it right, he pulled you up towards him, shifting your legs so you were straddling his lap, and then began fixing your sling, “There are plenty of things you can still do, (F/n), and, while I believe your vision will return, if it doesn’t then you will learn to live without it.”

By the time he’d finished, you were free of the sling, which he set aside, and the tears were flowing steadily down your face to leave a smattering of spots on his shirt below. He hated those tears. The pads of his thumbs quickly erased them as he offered, “If nothing has changed in a week and you’d still like to learn then I will make an attempt to teach you the violin.”

“Thank you,” you whispered as you stroked up from his shoulders to find his cheeks, cupping them and bowing your head down to place a soft kiss on his lips. To your surprise, he responded fervently, pressing his lips firmly against yours as one hand slid around the back of your neck to pull you down to him and the other fell to the small of your back to keep you close.

Melting into him with little resistance as you let him soothe your frustrations with affection, you parted your lips with a small pleased sigh and he took the opportunity to catch your lower lip between his teeth, giving it a little tug. You moaned softly in approval, reassuring him since you could feel the hint of hesitation in his actions, and moved your fingers into his hair as you leaned your forehead on his. He tilted up to catch your lips again before smoothly purring, “Let me show you all you can do without needing to see.”

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” you sighed, “After last ti-“

“I made a mistake… this time will be different,” he persisted, running his hands up your thighs with a tantalizingly gentle touch before cupping your rear with both. Just as he thought, that was enough for you to give pause and think it over as your fingers twirled locks of his hair around their lengths and made his eyes flutter closed. After a moment you leaned closer, your lips brushing against his as you seductively breathed, “Alright, genius. Prove it.”

That was all it took for him to sweep you up and into his room as you pressed open mouth kisses to his neck and nipped at his earlobe. You could hear his breath catch but little else and wondered how he managed to keep himself so composed when a similar treatment from him had rendered you nearly unable to stand. What you couldn’t see made all the difference- his face was flushed a dark shade of pink, he was biting his lip to the point of it being painful, and his eyes were so dark with desire that, if he wasn’t focused on carrying you, his hands would be all the places John thought they shouldn’t.

You returned to his lips just as he set you down on the bed, feeling him loom over you while you worked at the buttons to his shirt, the smooth fabric slipping between your fingers to allow them to brush each new section of bare chest. Buttons were no match for your practiced fingers, even if you couldn’t see them, and before the kiss was broken you were pushing the shirt away from him. He pulled from you to finish the task, tossing it away carelessly, and then returned, his fingers working at the edge of your own shirt. His other hand tangled into your hair, relishing its softness as the locks encompassed his fingers, and then pulled you back to his mouth with a new sense of urgency.

Sherlock internally marveled at his how his body instinctually responded to the situation, how it screamed at him to hurry up and get his skin against your skin- to lock your form against his and make your exhale his inhale. Even his vivid memories couldn’t do this moment and these feelings justice and he realized just how much and for how long he’d wanted to do this with you again. At the same time, something about it now was very different than before- better in a new and curious way- and he briefly wondered if it had to do with the new folder in his head. Sensing his drifting thoughts, you deepened the kiss, snapping him back to the present and to you.

His hand slipped up your shirt, caressing your sides and stomach as he worked his way up to a point where he absolutely had to pull away from the kiss to get rid of the article of clothing. In his impatience, he nearly yanked it over your head but then caught sight of the bruises still patterning your torso and slowed to ease it off your injured arm. Seeing your injuries fully for the first time made him change his approach from heated to gently affectionate, his arms winding around you to pull you into his lap as his lips fell to the large bruise coloring your shoulder.

Nothing needed to be said for you to understand what he was doing as he covered the area with sloppy open-mouthed kisses. You just tangled your fingers into his hair, rested your cheek against him, and let him try to erase the pain with his tender touch. He stopped at the bandage on your arm, gently stroking at the edge of it with his thumb as he rested his forehead on yours. He closed his eyes as he tightly sighed, “This was my fault.”

You startled, hands coming around to his cheeks in a flash, “You know that’s not true, Sherlock.”

In a rare moment of total vulnerability, he buried his nose in your neck, his silky curls brushing against your cheek and jaw as he murmured, “I was the reason he gave you that… that he marked you.”

You buried your nose in his hair, stroking it with one hand, “Don’t, Sherlock. Thinking like that benefits no one but him.” 

He simply nipped at your neck in response, the moment of guilt passing as quickly as it had come, and you chuckled, tugging him to your mouth with the fingers in his hair. It was one of those kisses that went from incredibly gentle, with your fingers tracing his sharp cheekbones while his swirled lightly over your hips and lower back, to beyond heated as your tongues danced and teeth nipped at the soft flesh of your lips, your nails raking down his back as he laid you down and shifted his weight over you. You paused for air, soft panting filling the room as your hands cupped his shoulders and then slid down to feel out his lithe form as his lips returned to yours. When your hands fell to the waist of his trousers to pull him against you, you felt the reverberation of a chuckle before he parted from you just barely, lowly taunting, “Patience, darling.”

You pouted, pulling him to you anyways, and he nibbled at the sweet spot on your neck, possessively growling, “Not until I’ve had my turn, love. You made me beg for mercy- it’s only fair I return the favor.”


	78. Chapter 78

Warning: 18+ THIS IS A LEMON. Please skip if you are not comfortable, prefer not to read, or are not of age.

Before you could respond to his statement or ask what he meant, he bit down on your neck right where it was most sensitive, making you moan zealously and arch up into him. He swirled the tip of his tongue over the new mark, both teasing and soothing, before moving on to leave a self-designed constellation of nips and bites across your fevered skin. He worked his way down your neck and over your collarbone and shoulders, switching to gentle kisses when he came upon a bruise, and the combination only made you want him more, a desperate heat building between your legs as your heartbeat quickened.

He lingered over it for a moment, feeling its frantic fluttering with his lips, and then smirked into your skin as he ghosted a hand up the curve of your waist. As intended, it made you arch your back just enough that he could slip his other hand beneath you, deftly unhooking your bra on the first try- he’d learned from the last time. Your sensitive buds rapidly hardened as he lifted the bra away from you and exposed your soft breasts to the cool air of the room, your breath catching in your throat. Noting the pause in his touch, you shifted a little, uncomfortable at the feeling of his gaze on you, and your skin prickled a little from cold and knowing he’s likely looking you over. You made a small noise in the back of your throat like a short whine and it snapped him out of his moment of utter admiration of your bare body.

The warmth of his hands was quick to cover your breasts, his fingers sending an electric-like shock through your body when he rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger as if he was tuning his violin. The friction against the delicate ridged flesh sent waves of pleasure through your body and you gasped out a desperate note, wordlessly begging him for more. He willingly gave it, his lips returning to your skin to soothe the sensitive swell his fingers had left behind with a light kiss to your nipple. Squirming beneath him, you sighed gladly when his hot wet tongue slipped out to swirl over the hard nub, letting out a breathy gasp a moment later as his lips locked around it to suck.

‘How the bloody hell does he know how to do that?’ you wondered for a split second before he gave it a little nip and you arched into him, thoughts erased as your fingers wove tightly into his hair to keep him where he was. Your heart faltered at the soft tug of his mouth around your perky bud, teeth grazing it occasionally in a way that sent a small shock like pang straight from your chest to your folds. You whimpered and pressed your thighs together to try and ease the ache that he so easily encouraged, panting softly as you scratched lightly at his scalp. A pleased and extremely smug hum vibrated through your breast as he relished your response, shifting to give your other breast a similar treatment while his thumb returned to drag over the nipple he’d just left. You squealed, fisting your hand in his hair as your hips jolted up in a desperate involuntary buck, and he chuckled deeply. He’d observed so carefully the last time, noting what made you gasp and moan, and now it paid off as he applied it to the extreme. He wanted to hear you beg like he had, to know that you needed him- to please you.

He left the pliable mounds of your breasts, your wet nipples aching at the sudden absence of his warm touch as the cool of the room settled in on them. You let out a small groan as his nose traced across your indulgent flesh and his lips worked to provide a healing affection to each and every mark that marred its soft surface- the gentle care easily making up for your frustration at his pace. He was unable to keep a content sigh from escaping his lips when he nuzzled his face into your stomach and you let out a soft giggle. He turned his attention to your jeans after a moment and sat back on his heels to drink in the sight of you, absorbing it like dry earth receiving water after a drought. Not wanting to leave you waiting long, he traced the edge of your jeans as he took a moment to admire the way they fell on your hips.

He hummed to himself and then decided that they needed to go, moving to rid you of both the jeans and the thin slip of fabric that lay beneath. You took a deep hungry breath as his hands ran over the small of your back and down across your cheeks to slide the stiff fabric away from your legs and toss them to the floor. Goosebumps rippled across your skin as you wiggled impatiently, wondering what he was planning. You felt a strong longing for his warmth to return to you and a soft unplanned whine escaped your lips to bring his attention to this, making him refocus again. His own desire was peaking toward painful, his trousers overly tight as his growing bulge made itself prominently known, but he was determined to make you cry for mercy before giving in to what you both wanted.

Hesitating as he planned to delve into previously uncharted territory, Sherlock stroked your thigh for a moment to let you know he was focused on you fully and then slipped his hand between your knees to part your legs and settle himself between them. He chewed lightly at his lip as he admired your slick folds in a way he hadn’t had a chance to do last time, the heated skin flushed and desirous for his attention. His thumb ran experimentally between you them, brushing upwards from bottom to top to get a feel for the area, and your response was instantaneous. You fisted the bed sheets with a sharp gasp that turned into a groan as your legs tensed a little and he grinned like Cheshire cat, running his thumb between them a second time to get the same response with an added squirm. With his confidence boosted, he dropped to repeat the action with his tongue, burying his face in your wet folds as he settled more fully between your legs.

When he finished his first experimental lick with a flick of his tongue over the sensitive nub hidden between them, you let out a little cry, barely muffling it with a hand, and he silently panicked, pulling away to breathe, “Not good?”

Finding his hair and giving it a gentle tug, you hurried, “Heavens, Sherly. Good. Very, very good.”

You managed a small smile at his concern, reminded of just how much you care for him, before his tongue demanded your attention again. Reassured, he had returned to his task with a renewed fervor, his broad licks and teasing flicks causing you to tremble and moan. You squeaked out a moan as his hot tongue probed your clit more firmly before his teeth grazed against in a small nibble. You desperately tried to buck up into him but found all your attempts thwarted by a firm hand on your hip pressing you down into the mattress.

The noises you made for him were like sweet music to his ears and he noted in his mind how easily they escaped you when he gave the throbbing rise of your clit any sort of attention. Just as he flicked his tongue over it again, he slipped his free hand up your inner thigh and added a finger, easing one in slowly to start. You covered your mouth as you let out a small gasping cry, straining to buck your hips against him, and he rumbled lowly against your folds, “Careful. If you agitate your injuries, I will have to stop.”

As small frustrated whine erupted from you as you squirmed slightly but ultimately nodded, “R-Right.”

Satisfied with your answer, he returned to his experiment with a nip to your sensitive nub as he shallowly thrust his finger and gently stroked at your slick inner walls. Your hands fisted in his hair and the sheet when he found what he was looking for, making note of the location for the future. He slipped in a second finger to trill them both expertly against your inner wall as if it was the strings of his violin, hitting that overly sensitive spot that made your entire body tingle. You arched your back a little off the bed as you pressed a pillow over your mouth for fear of waking John with the pleased noise the action drew out of you, legs coming together as much as they could with him between them.

Within a matter of seconds, Sherlock coaxed you to a climax unlike any other, your back arching up more intensely as your frame trembled violently and shockwaves of heart-stopping pleasure blanketed all your senses and quickly surged through your body. He groaned, enjoying how your body responded to his efforts, and lapped a bit more gently at your clit until you pushed him off, toes already curled tightly. Letting you ride it out, he looked up to enjoy the look of bliss on your face before dotingly kissing your folds and then the burn marks above them. You took a moment to recover and then breathlessly panted, “Please. I need you.”

As you puffed out short breaths, you could tell his face held an imperious grin without needing to lay your eyes on him and you felt him shift away from you for a moment. Your ears twitched as they picked up the movement of him hastily ridding himself of his trousers and pants before he returned to you, his weight settling across you as your bodies fit perfectly against each other. You chuckled softly when his rock hard length pressed against your thigh, pulling him down for a desperate kiss.

“Mercy, Sherlock… Please let me help you,” you whispered against his lips as you reached a hand down to grasp his length and pull a loud moan from him as you finished in a purr, “with this.”

He grunted and shifted back to his knees, pushing your legs wide open as his thumb stroked at your hip. You mewled softly as you suddenly felt his tip drag between your still pulsing folds and Sherlock bit his lip hard, repeating the action a few times just to enjoy the feel and watch your folds part for him. You squirmed with an impatient groan and he lined himself up, one hand holding you in place by your hip as the other guided his cock into you. His breath caught audibly in his throat as he watched himself slide into your drenched cunt with ease, your folds swallowing his cock perfectly. Your walls tensed around him as he filled you completely and you let out a high-pitched gasp, gripping tightly at his shoulders, “Sherlock-“

He leaned over you quickly, cutting you off with a passionate kiss before murmuring, “Slow… I remember.”

You wound your arms around his neck to kiss him again, transferring your gratitude to him in the way your lips connected with his, and he gathered you carefully to his chest in an embrace as he sat back on his heels. You stayed like that for a long moment while you each enjoyed the feel of skin against skin and his lips left kisses on your jawline and a single one on your nose -two beings perfectly intertwined. A need to mark the consulting detective as your own spread through your chest as your fingers carded through his silky hair and you nuzzled deeply into his neck. You left some light kisses and nips along his pulse, searching for the perfect spot, and he groaned impatiently just as you picked one and sank your teeth into the sensitive skin. He held back a squeak, the noise tensing his throat under your lips, and you sucked firmly to leave your mark as a way of encouraging him to act on his desires.

Settling you carefully back on the sheets of his bed, he flexed his hips to pull his length out to the tip and then slide slowly back in to the hilt with a low cursing moan, biting his lip as his eyes fluttered closed. The wet heat that enveloped his member tightly drove him to the edge of his senses as he gave another deliberate and slow thrust, feeling you arch into him in response. You gripped at his shoulders, gasping between pants as he filled you again, and shifted your legs open fully for him. He knew if he went too fast too quickly he would hurt you but couldn’t keep up the slow pace for longer than a handful of thrusts, his needs and impatience winning over his calculated logic as he quickened his movements. You hardly minded as ran your hands down to his waist and back up while you rocked your hips up to him, deepening each of his passes into you with breathless sighs and soft mewls.

His hands fisted the bed sheets on either side of your head. He wanted desperately to run them over you and pull you up to him but he didn’t trust that his grip or heavy-handed caressing wouldn’t agitate your injuries. In the end, it didn’t take away from the pleasure since your nomadic hands more than made up for the absence of his and he was pressed so closely to you that your breaths mingled- your moans and sighs getting caught in each other’s throats. Your fingers found their way into his hair and tugged softly with a breathless groan as he fit himself against you a bit more forcefully, his tip driving deep into your snug walls and your hips instantly snapping up to meet his in response.

He shifted back, the need to touch you becoming overwhelming, and locked his thumbs against your hipbones as his fingers splayed back to grip your cheeks tightly, enabling him to pull your lower half up to him to enter you at a deeper more pleasurable angle. A jolt of pleasure started as a tingling pang deep in your core, spreading out to your fingers and toes in the following moments, and you gripped at his forearm tightly as a loud, surprised gasp fled from your lips like a bird from a cage followed by a faltering moan, “Sherlock- Right there- yes!”

There were no pauses between your moans now, leaving you breathless, and you could hear Sherlock’s ragged breathing as his grip on your hips pressed tighter but no sounds left his lips. The disappointment over his silence drove you to tighten your muscles around him, making his position inside you devastatingly tight, and his low baritone reverberated through you and the bed below as he left out a staggered set of curses, groaning, “Yes- (F/n).”

You smirked as you repeated the action, loving the way your name fell from his lips like a deep melodic phrase, and your detective let out a whimpering moan- he wasn’t going to last much longer at this rate. He picked up a steadier pace, his length hitting all the right spots with each thrust as he drove himself into you as fully as he possibly could, eyes locked on you. Your head was tilted back as you let out quiet breathless moans and kept a tight grip on his wrist. His eyes trailed down from your stunningly pleased face to watch the slight bounce of your raise nipples that came with each deep forceful thrust, licking his lip as he followed it with his eyes for a moment.

The knot of your core coiled tighter each time he filled you, your already sensitive walls getting more snug around him, and his gaze quickly moved lower to watch again. He groaned lowly at how his slicked length disappeared into your glistening folds, a deep husky noise that caused you to shiver as it tightened the knot inside you even more, and he gripped your hips more firmly. When you cried his name again in a whimpered warning that you were close, his thrusts turned rapid and erratic until he shortly hit his peak, a few more forceful thrusts burying his pulsing member deeply inside of you.

You gasped at the feel of his cock unleashing hot seed deep into you and clawed his arm as it easily pushed you over the edge with him. He choked out a moan when your body tensed around him in your own climax, making the breathtaking heat spilling through his loins that much more intense and highly satisfying as he bucked a few more times. Your hips shuddered as your body seized with surges of ecstasy, his member convulsing similarly within you, and, in a brief moment of clarity, he pulled you to him and collapsed on his back to avoid hurting you.


	79. Chapter 79

Time seemed to pass slowly, if at all, while you both filled the room the sound of panting, Sherlock cradling you close to his chest while your limp forms slowly came down from the soaring heights of your respective peaks. Once you trusted your voice enough to speak, you pressed a kiss to his collarbone, “Where in heaven’s name did you learn to do all of that?”

“I used John’s computer to do some research,” he dead-panned and you let out a tired laugh, “He has got to come up with a better password.”

He chuckled faintly, his fingers running lazily through your hair as he followed it with a content hum, “That was fantastic- like solving a challenging case, playing the violin, and science all wrapped up into one.”

You sighed happily, nuzzling into his chest before shifting off of him to lie on your back, the loss of your warmth making him give a soft whine. You tugged at him and he rolled lazily to rest his head on your breast, using it like a pillow as he wound an arm loosely around your waist.

Entwining your fingers in his hair to massage at his scalp, you giggled, “You’re so cute.”

“No, I’m not,” he pouted in a grumble and you let out a chuckle that turned into a yawn, keeping a hand in his hair while resting the other on his shoulder to keep him close. There was a comfortable moment of silence and then he scrunched his eyes shut, making a pleasure-fueled decision, before quietly rushing, “I love you, (F/n).”

It felt so strange for him to say it out loud, like was both so wrong and so right at the same time, and a sort of wary relief settled over him- he hadn’t known if he was capable of actually admitting it aloud. His thoughts ceased when he realized you hadn’t responded and he tilted his head up to find you’d fallen asleep, your lips delicately parted as the corners pulled up in a slight smile. He sighed, the noise holding hints of frustration, and snuggled into you, tightening his arm around you protectively as he let the creeping need to sleep take over.

Something disturbed your peaceful sleep in the early morning and you tried to pinpoint what it was with a bleary groan, more asleep than awake. It took you a moment but you found the source of your annoyance and heavy-handedly patted Sherlock’s head, “Sherly?”

He groaned and nuzzled into your breast as the arm at your waist and the leg he’d thrown over yours at some point in the night tightened around you, pressing his body closer to you in his sleep clinging. You sighed and tried again, refusing to wake up more than you absolutely had to, “Sherlock, love, s’too bright.”

The grown man hugging you like a koala on a tree let out a comically childlike whine but still flopped out of bed to close the blinds against the morning sun, his sleep riddled mind working only enough to finish the task and return to you. He crawled back under the covers, wrapping around you from behind when he found you’d rolled to your side, and buried his nose into your hair with a satisfied sigh.

Both of you slipped back to sleep for a few minutes before your subconscious poked at you and you stirred again, letting out a whimper of complaint as the waking world started to bear down on you. That whimper snapped Sherlock awake since, after the incident on the couch, he had set his brain on high alert for any such noises from you that indicated you might be in pain. He lifted his arm from you, thinking maybe he was pressing against your healing ribs, and you immediately reached out for it to return as you mumbled, “Don’t go.”

He returned his arm quite happily, pulling you back into his chest as he dipped his head to press a kiss to your shoulder, “What’s wrong?” 

You sighed unhappily, slurring, “Dunno… brain’s insisting there’s a reason to be awake.”

Sherlock smirked, suggestively nipping the side of your neck as he gave your breast a cheeky squeeze, and you giggled softly, completely aware of what he was implying, “S’not that, Sherlock.”

You could feel his disappointment and lazily added, “I’mma need a shower… Once John’s left for the clinic…”

You trailed off tiredly but Sherlock got the gist, grinning drowsily into your hair- for once he couldn’t wait until John was out of the flat and too busy to pay attention to him. It would be his first shift since you’d been hurt and he would no doubt have his hands full, meaning less time for him to wonder what you and Sherlock were doing at home without him.

With the assurance that he’d get more time to experiment with the varying ways of expressing physical attraction with you, he nuzzled into your hair and tried to help you figure out what your brain wanted so you both could get back to sleep. It took only seconds for him to come up with something, suddenly going rigid behind you as he asked, “What was it that woke you before?”

“The sun. It was too bright,” you responded simply with a soft yawn.

There was a moment of quiet as Sherlock waited for it to click in your head and then you shot up, quickly rubbing your eyes before turning to blink at him. A wide grin spread across your face as you threw your arms around his neck and let out a squeal, “I can see you!”

He patted your back awkwardly until you moved away, grabbed his cheeks to pull him into a kiss, and then rolled out of the bed as he asked, “How well?”

You didn’t pause in your task, which he realized was a quest for clothes when you yanked on his boxers after stepping on them, but still enthusiastically responded, “It’s blurry but I can make out shapes and colors and… what does it matter? I can see!”

You gave a little twirl as you exclaimed the last bit, nearly losing your footing, and he couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched you pull on his shirt and hurriedly button it incorrectly, making the whole thing lopsided. It wasn’t until you stumbled out the door that his face set in a frown and he called, “Where are you going?”

You popped your head back in, “To tell Johnny, of course. Keep up, Sherlock.”

You bounded lightly up the stairs, throwing open the door to your brother’s room and pouncing on him before he had a chance to figure out what was going on. He blinked up at you confusedly from his position pinned beneath you, eyes still glazed over with sleep, “Squeak? What’s going on?”

You grinned at him, “I can see you.”

His eyes slid closed and he shoved you off so he could roll away from you as he mumbled, “Of course you can, (F/n), go back to bed.”

You quirked an eyebrow, waiting for the inevitable, and seconds later he bolted up, “You can see me?!”

“That is what I just said, Johnny,” you teased and he took your face in his hands, “That’s fantastic! How well? Is it clear?”

His eyes dashed between yours as you offered, “It’s a bit blurry but I can make out shapes and colors, kinda like when you get something in your eye and it waters up.”

You smiled when he smiled and he let out a relieved huff, “That’s good, Squeak. Really good.”

You threw yourself at him in a hug, pushing him down on the bed with the force of it, and he chuckled softly, hugging you back as you mumbled into him, “It’s so good to see you, Johnny.”

“I can imagine,” he laughed, petting your hair, and you pulled back to give him a playful slap on the arm. He gave a chuckled groan as he clutched his arm in mock injury and then looked up at you, noticing your choice of attire and narrowing his eyes, “What are you-Is that Sherlock’s shirt?”

You glanced down, finally realizing that it was probably a mistake to put on Sherlock’s clothes instead of your own, and then sheepishly offered, “No?”

John pursed his lips, “Why are you wearing- wait a minute… are those his pants too?”

Rolling off of him and the bed, you made a beeline for the door as you rushed, “It’s not a big deal, John, I just grabbed the nearest clothes when I got up and they happened to be his. It’s nothing to get upset ov-“

“And just what were you wearing before?” he demanded warily and you floundered as you realized your mistake, unable to come up with an acceptable answer. He gasped, “Bloody… You weren’t wearing anything, were you?!”

All you could do was let out an embarrassed chuckle as you rubbed the back of your neck and John was out of bed in flash, growling, “I’m going to kill him. I’m going to bloody kill him, chop him into little bits, and keep them in the bloody freezer.”

You started in with some protests but it was no use, he was already storming down the stairs bellowing, “SHERLOCK!”

Just as you stumbled into John, who’d stopped in the doorway, Sherlock walked out of the kitchen, groggily nursing a cup of tea in only his trousers from the night before as he responded to the call, “John.”

His completely nonchalant attitude threw your brother for a bit of a loop, making him lose his stride slightly as he demanded, “Why was my sister naked in your bed?”

“We had sex,” Sherlock answered flatly and John turned a shade of red you didn’t know existed while you tried in vain to stop yourself from laughing. You let out a snort and John spun to face you, his blur of a face looking really unamused and entirely livid, but you offered, “Oh come on, Johnny, you walked right into that one.”

“It is not funny, (F/n)! He defiled you!” he snapped and then spun to face Sherlock again, his voice rising to a yell, “You defiled her… my baby sister, and while she was blind and injured no less!”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, “I would hardly call it defiling, John. If anything she defiled me… her skills in the act suggest-“

Before Sherlock could continue that thought, John’s fist met his nose with a sickening crunch as he shrieked, “Don’t talk about her like that!”

Acting quickly before John managed to land another blow, you stepped between them, putting a firm hand on your brother’s chest as you growled, “Take a step back, John. I’m pretty sure you just broke his nose.”

“He deserves more than that, (F/n). I don’t like this- any of this! He put his hands on you… He’s taking advantage- can’t you see that!” he roared, pushing against your grip to jab his finger at Sherlock, “You’re a dead man.”

Despite the blood gushing from his nose, he opened his mouth to respond but before he could get anything out you cut him off, commanding, “Keep your mouth shut before you make it worse,” and then gripped John’s shoulders tightly. He gave you his attention, angrily fidgeting, and you sharply enunciated, “First off, I am as much responsible for what we did as he is. I am an adult, John- it’s not as though it was my first time riding the roller coaster and I definitely enjoyed this go around.”

Sherlock got a smug look on his face as John squirmed, both furious and aggressively uncomfortable at the same time, but you still continued, “Second, He is not taking advantage of me. We are in a relationship, as odd and undefined as it is, and I think we can all agree that sleeping together is a part of that. You certainly don’t hear me complaining about all the times you didn’t come back to the flat after a date.”

“That’s different!” John seethed and you pursed your lips at him as you demanded in an annoyed tone, “Really? How so?”

He floundered before frustratedly yelling, “Because you’re my baby sister and hurt and they aren’t sociopathic, crime-obsessed machines who behave like arrogant arseholes with… with…”

“Are you quite finished?” you hummed, raising an eyebrow as he got flustered and trailed off, unable to think of a vicious enough insult to finish his rant.

An angry pout settled on his face as he glared at Sherlock over your shoulder but he still nodded and you moved your hands from his shoulders to his cheeks, “I love you, John. You’re my best friend and my big brother- the person I can always count on, but you have to let this go.”

“But-“

“No, John. Sherlock and I are having a go at whatever this is and while he’s a bit of a twat and certainly cheeky for good measure- he does treat me well. Better than most of the other men I’ve been with, in fact. If that ever changes- if he ever hurts me in any way- you can do whatever you’d like but barring that, you are just going to have to live with the fact that he and I are involved. In addition, he is your best friend. Once you calm, you’ll be feeling guilty about all this. I know you.”

He ground his jaw, looking between the two of you, and then gave a defeated sigh and pushed out a reluctant, “Fine,” before adding in a grumble, “But I still want to kill him.”

You sighed, turning him towards his room, “Well you broke his nose, that’s a start… If you wish to continue I suggest you practice your death glare because you will not be doing anything like that again. Now go upstairs and get ready for work while I get him cleaned up.”

John resentfully complied and you turned your attention to the consulting detective, who was still clutching his bleeding nose, as you sarcastically sighed, “Well that went well.”


	80. Chapter 80

After pushing Sherlock down in John’s chair you went into the kitchen and pulled open the freezer as you shouted, “Sherlock, is there anything temperature sensitive in the freezer that you care about?”

“No” he called out before doing a bit of a double take, “Wait- Why?”

You emerged with what looked to be a bag containing a frozen lung, a wet towel, and the first aid kit as you sighed, “Because I can’t exactly tell what’s what”

He hummed in acknowledgement as you straddled his lap and pulled his hand away from his face, “Alright. Let me see.”

“If you can’t tell the difference between a frozen lung and a bag of peas it’s safe to reason that you looking at my nose is rather pointless.”

You pursed your lips at him, catching his cheeks to tilt his face, “I don’t spend hours on end looking at and drawing the contents of your freezer. This face on the other hand…”

He chuckled softly as you stroked his cheekbones and then hissed when you gently pressed your fingers on either side of his nose, “Your nose is definitely broken but not out of place. Which is good.”

“Obviously.”

“Don’t get smart with me when I’m trying to help you, Sherlock,” you huffed, rolling your eyes as you started to wipe away the blood with the towel.

There was a period of silence as he let you clean his face and then splint his nose, trying your best to make it as painless as possible through the blur, before lightly pressing the lung over it. You shifted to get up but he grabbed your hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist as he mumbled, “Thank you.”

Sighing as you set the lung aside for a moment, you bent to press a quick chaste kiss to his lips before resting your forehead on his, “I’m sorry my brother broke your nose. If it’s any consolation I meant what I said… last night was fantastic.”

“You have done nothing to warrant an apology, (F/n), but yes- that does ease my pain a bit,” he thrummed as his lips curled up deviously, catching yours again for something a little less chaste as he pulled your hips against him and pressed your core against his.

Pulling away from the kiss, you let out a soft giggle and traced your thumb over his Cupid’s bow, “Easy there, genius. Let’s not upset John anymore then we already have.”

He simply smirked and did it again but this time slid his hands down back of the boxers to cup your cheeks and you involuntarily melted into him with a squeak that turned into a soft moan. You internally cursed him and gave in a little by nuzzling into his neck before resisting his advances with a chuckle, pulling away from his chest as you shook your head, “Look at you… Acting like a horny teen. Give me those naughty hands.”

You pulled his hands from you and pressed the lung into one, moving it onto his nose again before murmuring, “There. That should keep the pesky things appropriately busy for a while.”

He pouted slightly as you slipped off his lap to stretch your arms over your head with a yawn, immediately yelping and throwing them back down to clutch at your shoulder in pain. Sherlock tilted his head down to look at you worriedly and John appeared just in time to see it happen, frowning at you as he scolded, “That’s why you need to wear the sling, (F/n).”

John seemed to have calmed considerably but Sherlock smartly slipped away to put on some clothes, leaving the two of you alone to figure things out before John had to leave. Your brother did want to talk with you but wasn’t sure how to approach it, shuffling uncomfortably as you sighed and rolled your shoulder with a grimace before catching your blurry refection in the mirror above the fireplace.

He watched your eyes go wide as you pulled at the collar of the shirt you were wearing to get a better look at all the purple splotches covering your skin, hesitantly venturing, “You okay, (F/n)?”

“I just want to live my life without pain for one minute- is that too much to ask?” you grumbled, pulling your eyes away from the mirror to glare at the floor before adding, “Clearly the universe hates me.”

“The universe doesn’t hate you, Squeak,” he countered as you flopped down on the couch and curled up to face the back of it.

“Then why do these things keep happening to me?” you huffed dolefully and John just sort of floundered, not having expected the conversation to go in this direction on top of not having an answer to give you. When he didn’t respond you continued, curling further into yourself, “Maybe I deserve it.”

“No,” he snapped firmly, “You could never deserve this, (F/n). Not ever.”

“But I did run... I was stupid to think I could just slip away and start over without some sort of consequence- without some sort of punishment.”

He plopped down on the couch to almost roughly pull you up and take your face in his hands, “Stop it. Punishment implies that you did something wrong and you didn’t.”

You looked down towards his lap unsurely and he determinedly demanded, “Look at me.”

When your eyes lifted to meet his, he repeated, “You did nothing wrong, (F/n). You had every right to leave and he had no right to do this to you. Sometimes bad things happen to good people- that’s all. You didn’t and don’t deserve any of this. Say it.”

You blinked at him a couple of times, chewing at your lip, and then took a deep breath, “I didn’t deserve this.”

“Good,” he praised, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he added, “Thoughts like that shouldn’t even cross your mind, Squeak… when they do you come talk to me, alright?”

“Ok, Johnny,” you sighed and he demanded, “Promise me.”

A small grin lit up your face as you chuckled, “I promise, John.”

Letting his hands fall, he opened his mouth to broach the subject of you and Sherlock being intimate when Sherlock burst into the room, hurriedly buttoning his shirt with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. He paused to remove it, announcing through the toothpaste, “Case. Go put some clothes on.”

You hopped up happily but John caught your arm, glaring at Sherlock, “She still can’t see fully, Sherlock. You can’t take her.”

“I’m not staying home alone again. I can see well enough and either way I’m going outside today. Wouldn’t you prefer it to be with someone?” you countered, raising an eyebrow at your brother.

A number of things ran though John’s head as he considered that, the first and foremost being a sense of relief that you and Sherlock wouldn’t be left alone in the flat to your own devices. Beyond that it got complicated, you could either be left alone at home- giving you the opportunity to leave the flat on your own and get into some sort of trouble- or you could go with Sherlock which was rather like you being alone since he was already in full focus case mode.

John came to a decision, letting out a heavy sigh, “Fine but I’m coming with you.”

“What? Why?” you wondered, furrowing your brow at him as Sherlock pointed out, “You have a shift at the clinic.”

“I’ll call in. I don’t want you getting left behind if he starts to run off... among other things,” he offered, shooting a glare at Sherlock at the last part.

The consulting detective didn’t seem to notice or care, pointing to you with his toothbrush to give the muffled exclamation, “Clothes. Now,” before turning on his heel to go back to the bathroom.

You grabbed your duffle from next to the door, where Mycroft had left it the day before, and kicked Sherlock out of the bathroom to make yourself look presentable as he protested, “I’ve already seen you naked, (F/n).”

“Say that again and that will be the last time you do. Now get out,” you snapped in annoyance, pushing him out and shutting the door in his face. John almost felt bad for Sherlock as he pulled a face at the door- almost- before letting out a satisfied chuckle at his flatmate’s misfortune.

If Sherlock wanted to learn about being in a relationship then he had to experience all the less then desirable parts as well, he mused in his mind, and the detective looked slightly confused as he paced back into the main room to grab his coat and scarf.

When Sherlock stalked out a moment later John sighed, calling out to you before heading after him to make sure he didn’t leave prematurely, “Squeak, he’s out the door and down the stairs already! Hurry it up!”

Much like the first case you’d gone on with them, you tumbled down the stairs less than a minute later, trying to pull your shoes on while struggling with your sling. You lost your balance and went careening into the wall at the bend just as you got your first shoe over your heel, hopping down the last set of stairs while you tried to do the same with other and grumbled, “I have got to stop trying to put my shoes on while going down the stairs. I just fixed that wall from the last time…”

Finally reaching John as Sherlock split out the door to call a cab, you caught his arm with the hand in the sling for balance and stuck your tongue out as you concentrated on getting your heel into your shoe with the other.

“Are you alri-“ John started before you loudly exclaimed, “GOT IT!” and skipped off out the door as you called over you shoulder, “Don’t just stand there, John! Keep up!”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head as he took off at a jog to get into the cab before it pulled away from the curb, gently pushing you to the other side so you didn't have a chance to sit next to Sherlock. This was going to be a long case.After pushing Sherlock down in John’s chair, you went into the kitchen and pulled open the freezer as you shouted, “Sherlock, is there anything temperature sensitive in the freezer that you care about?”

“No,” he called back before doing a bit of a double take, “Wait- Why?”

You emerged with what looked to be a bag containing a frozen lung, a wet towel, and the first aid kit as you sighed, “Because I can’t exactly tell what’s what”

He hummed in acknowledgment as you straddled his lap and pulled his hand away from his face, “Alright. Let me see.”

“If you can’t tell the difference between a frozen lung and a bag of peas, it’s safe to reason that you looking at my nose is rather pointless.”

You pursed your lips at him, catching his cheeks to tilt his face, “I don’t spend hours on end looking at and drawing the contents of your freezer. This face on the other hand…”

He chuckled softly as you stroked his cheekbones and then hissed when you gently pressed your fingers on either side of his nose, “Your nose is definitely broken but not out of place. Which is good.”

“Obviously.”

“Don’t get smart with me when I’m trying to help you, Sherlock,” you huffed, rolling your eyes as you started to wipe away the blood with the towel.

There was a period of silence as he let you clean his face and then splint his nose, trying your best to make it as painless as possible through the blur, before lightly pressing the lung over it. You shifted to get up but he grabbed your hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist, mumbling, “Thank you.”

Sighing as you set the lung aside for a moment, you bent to press a quick chaste kiss to his lips before resting your forehead on his, “I’m sorry my brother broke your nose. If it’s any consolation, I meant what I said… last night was fantastic.”

“You have done nothing to warrant an apology, (F/n), but yes- that does ease my pain a bit,” he thrummed as his lips curled up deviously, catching yours again for something a little less chaste as he pulled your hips against him and pressed your core against his.

Pulling away from the kiss, you let out a soft giggle and traced your thumb over his Cupid’s bow, “Easy there, genius. Let’s not upset John any more than we already have.”

He simply smirked and did it again but this time slid his hands down back of the boxers to cup your cheeks and you involuntarily melted into him with a squeak that turned into a soft moan. You internally cursed him and gave in a little by nuzzling into his neck before resisting his advances with a chuckle, pulling away from his chest as you shook your head, “Look at you… Acting like a horny teen. Give me those naughty hands.”

You pulled his hands from you and pressed the lung into one, moving it onto his nose again before murmuring, “There. That should keep the pesky things appropriately busy for a while.”

He pouted slightly as you slipped off his lap to stretch your arms over your head with a yawn, immediately yelping and throwing them back down to clutch at your shoulder in pain. Sherlock tilted his head down to look at you worriedly and John appeared just in time to see it happen, frowning at you as he scolded, “That’s why you need to wear the sling, (F/n).”

John seemed to have calmed considerably but Sherlock smartly slipped away to put on some clothes, leaving the two of you alone to figure things out before John had to leave. Your brother did want to talk with you but wasn’t sure how to approach it, shuffling uncomfortably while you sighed and rolled your shoulder with a grimace before catching your blurry reflection in the mirror above the fireplace.

He watched your eyes go wide as you pulled at the collar of the shirt you were wearing to get a better look at all the purple splotches covering your skin, hesitantly venturing, “You okay, (F/n)?”

“I just want to live my life without pain for one minute- is that too much to ask?” you grumbled, pulling your eyes away from the mirror to glare at the floor before adding, “Clearly the universe hates me.”

“The universe doesn’t hate you, Squeak,” he countered as you flopped down on the couch and curled up to face the back of it.

“Then why do these things keep happening to me?” you huffed dolefully and John just sort of floundered, not having expected the conversation to go in this direction on top of not having an answer to give you. When he didn’t respond you continued, curling further into yourself, “Maybe I deserve it.”

“No,” he snapped firmly, “You could never deserve this, (F/n). Not ever.”

“But I did run… I was stupid to think I could just slip away and start over without some sort of consequence- without some sort of punishment.”

He plopped down on the couch to almost roughly pull you up and take your face in his hands, “Stop it. Punishment implies that you did something wrong and you didn’t.”

You looked down towards his lap unsurely and he determinedly demanded, “Look at me.”

When your eyes lifted to meet his, he repeated, “You did nothing wrong, (F/n). You had every right to leave and he had no right to do this to you. Sometimes bad things happen to good people- that’s all. You didn’t and don’t deserve any of this. Say it.”

You blinked at him a couple of times, chewing at your lip, and then took a deep breath, “I didn’t deserve this.”

“Good,” he praised, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he added, “Thoughts like that shouldn’t even cross your mind, Squeak… when they do you come talk to me, alright?”

“Ok, Johnny,” you sighed and he demanded, “Promise me.”

A small grin lit up your face as you chuckled, “I promise, John.”

Letting his hands fall, he opened his mouth to broach the subject of you and Sherlock being intimate when Sherlock burst into the room, hurriedly buttoning his shirt with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. He paused to remove it, announcing through the toothpaste, “Case. Go put some clothes on.”

You hopped up happily but John caught your arm, glaring at Sherlock, “She still can’t see fully, Sherlock. You can’t take her.”

“I’m not staying home alone again. I can see well enough and either way, I’m going outside today. Wouldn’t you prefer it to be with someone?” you countered, raising an eyebrow at your brother.

A number of things ran through John’s head as he considered that, the first and foremost being a sense of relief that you and Sherlock wouldn’t be left alone in the flat to your own devices. Beyond that it got complicated, you could either be left alone at home- giving you the opportunity to leave the flat on your own and get into some sort of trouble- or you could go with Sherlock which was rather like you being alone since he was already in full focus case mode.

John came to a decision, letting out a heavy sigh, “Fine but I’m coming with you.”

“What? Why?” you wondered, furrowing your brow at him as Sherlock pointed out, “You have a shift at the clinic.”

“I’ll call in. I don’t want you getting left behind if he starts to run off… among other things,” he offered, shooting a glare at Sherlock at the last part.

The consulting detective didn’t seem to notice or care, pointing to you with his toothbrush to give the muffled exclamation, “Clothes. Now,” before turning on his heel to go back to the bathroom.

You grabbed your duffle from next to the door where Mycroft had left it the day before and kicked Sherlock out of the bathroom to make yourself look presentable as he protested, “I’ve already seen you naked, (F/n).”

“Say that again and that will be the last time you do. Now get out,” you snapped in annoyance, pushing him out and shutting the door in his face. John almost felt bad for Sherlock as he pulled a face at the door- almost- before letting out a satisfied chuckle at his flatmate’s misfortune.

If Sherlock wanted to learn about being in a relationship then he had to experience all the less then desirable parts as well, he mused in his mind, and the detective looked slightly confused as he paced back into the main room to grab his coat and scarf.

When Sherlock stalked out a moment later John sighed, calling out to you before heading after him to make sure he didn’t leave prematurely, “Squeak, he’s out the door and down the stairs already! Hurry it up!”

Much like the first case you’d gone on with them, you tumbled down the stairs less than a minute later, trying to pull your shoes on while struggling with your sling. You lost your balance and went careening into the wall at the bend just as you got your first shoe over your heel, hopping down the last set of stairs while you tried to do the same with other and grumbled, “I have got to stop trying to put my shoes on while going down the stairs. I just fixed that wall from the last time…”

Finally reaching John as Sherlock split out the door to call a cab, you caught his arm with the hand in the sling for balance and stuck your tongue out as you concentrated on getting your heel into your shoe with the other.

“Are you alri-“ John started before you loudly exclaimed, “GOT IT!” and skipped off out the door as you called over your shoulder, “Don’t just stand there, John! Keep up!”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head as he took off at a jog to get into the cab before it pulled away from the curb, gently pushing you to the other side so you didn’t have a chance to sit next to Sherlock.

This was going to be a long case.


End file.
